Borrowing Time
by KodiakWolfe13
Summary: Four times that Jason encounters Tessa after his resurrection and while nearly dying, and one time that Tessa comes to see him of her own accord. (Sequel to "Only the Dead and Dying".)
1. First Encounter

**Disclaimer: Still own nothing, even after two years of absence.**

* * *

 **1.**

It's the middle of the night when Jason awakens. He comes to quickly and suddenly, every sense bursting to life. All at once, he becomes aware of the sheets pulled snug around him, the spongy texture of his memory-foam pillow, and the warmth of the mattress as it engulfs him. He notices the fading scent of something sweet lingering in the air, and as he opens his crystalline blue eyes, he's met with the familiar sight of his room in Wayne Manor. Even in the dark, Jason can make out every meticulous detail – from the towering silhouette of the bookshelf down to the creases in the curtains.

Whatever it is that woke him, though, is nowhere to be found.

Not feeling the least bit concerned, Jason doesn't give the occurrence any thought, figuring it to be a fluke. Wrapped in warmth and softness and safety, he knows it'll be easy to fall back asleep. He shifts, finding a more comfortable way to lie before closing his eyes. A happy hum reverberates in his chest; then Jason falls silent and ceases motion, becoming almost unrecognizable amongst the equally as still furniture.

 _Crrrreeeeaaaakkkkk…_

Jason's eyes snap open, just in time to see his bedroom door start to slowly yawn open, its hinges crying louder with every inch the gap grows wider. He pushes himself up. The sheets fall away, pooling around his waist. He watches the door continue to creak open, watches as the hallway beyond it gradually comes into view. There's no emotion on Jason's face, no apprehension or curiosity at the sudden intrusion, only a distant acknowledgment that his door is opening, and he has no idea why. He doesn't even call to ask who's causing the disturbance.

Not that calling would help, Jason soon realizes. As the door comes to a stop, he finds the hallway empty of people.

Jason tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He studies the long, exaggerated shadows stretching across the hall for a moment longer, waiting. For what or for whom, he's not sure, but it or they never appear. He shrugs, unconcerned, and grabs the bunch of fabric at his waist. Before he pulls it over himself, he freezes, his breath catching in his throat and his every muscle seizing.

Under the covers, something presses against his leg; frigidness seeps through his sweatpants, burning his skin with its intensity. It lingers only for a second, and then the sheets shift as it pulls away.

Jason thinks, _There's someone in the bed with me._

In the millisecond that it takes for the thought to process, every ounce of light is eaten by shadows, dissolving the room around him until there's nothing but the bed and his open bedroom door left. His welcoming sanctuary has become a suffocating coffin.

 _I need to run_ , he thinks. His heart hammers rapidly against his chest in preparation. The vibrations of each strike race down his limbs and rattle his insides until he's practically vibrating. The ice ignites into fire; sweat begins to break out on his face. _I need to jump out of bed and run. Go find help. Find anyone to help. Find safety._

But he doesn't. His head slowly starts to turn instead. Whatever is behind him slowly creeps into his line of view. At first, it's nothing more than a bump under the sheets, like the crest of a tiny hill set in a vast expanse of land. But as his head continues to swivel, the protrusion begins to elongate. The little hill rises, not a hill at all but a mountain of muscle – a leg. Two legs, which meld into a torso. A torso with two arms and broad shoulders. A torso that suddenly shrinks into a throat, where the freezing sheets are pulled up tight and snug. A throat with a head attached. A head with a face, pasty and white, with red lips pulled tight and two green eyes alight with mania and sickness and glee.

He knows that face, those lips, those eyes – especially those black, empty eyes. His mouth moves, forming the shape of the name, but not a sound dares to partake in saying his name – the name of a psychopath, a filler of graveyards, a murderer.

His murderer.

The Joker.

Jason's mouth drops open as if to call for help, but even before his voice becomes lodged in his throat, he knows that not even God can help him now.

As if reading his thoughts, the Joker unfurls his devilish, face-splitting grin. His voice low and laughing, he says, "Heya there, Wonder Boy. Have you missed your Uncle J?"

Jason reacts the only way he can think of at the moment: he screams, shrill and blood-curdling.

The Joker laughs, wild and manic.

Jason bolts from his bed, nearly tripping over his feet as he dashes across what was once his room. The shadows grab at his feet as he sprints, trying to suck him down into their depths, but Jason is quick. His feet barely graze the ground before lifting off into the next step. In seconds, he's nearly out the door.

For a moment, a swell of hope surges in his chest. Jason's moving so fast that he might as well be flying. There's a chance that he can get away if only he can keep his pace. The adrenaline in his veins, which burn like fire, tell him that he absolutely can.

Except it doesn't matter. Not his speed, not his endurance, not any of it. Jason takes only a few steps into his journey of a thousand before he slams on the breaks again, his arms pinwheeling to keep him vertical. As he rocks back into a standstill, the boy looks up at the obstruction before him – at his fucking demise - and feels his heart wither into a husk in his chest.

It's just like before, the boy thinks in anguish. Just like in Ethiopia. Just like always.

Blocking his one and only exit is a wall of ticking time bombs. Beep, beep, beep, they ring, quiet and precise in their timing. 0:12, 0:11, 0:10, their red numbers glare, piercing the darkness with ease.

The shadows laugh as Jason realizes he's going to die all over again. He's going to be consumed by flames and heat and the collapsing foundation of his prison all over again, only this time there's no resignation to pacify his jittering nerves. There's only panic, shooting lightning through his limbs and telling him in a deep, graveling, urgent voice to _MOVE_.

The boy whips around, his eyes darting for any other way out, even though he knows better. He finds only darkness, his bed with its messy sheets, and a clown dressed in purple and green and holding a crowbar, just as expected.

 _Beep, beep, beep_ , the explosives call behind him. **0:09** , **0:08** , **0:07** , the boy knows they read.

Jason needs a plan, but with the shadows' laughter ringing in his ears, he can't seem to think of anything - not even a last, nonsensical ditch effort for which he's always been known. Any potential ideas that surface are suffocated by the noise, locking his limbs in place as they wait endlessly for the signal to jump into action.

Except, at this point, one will never come. The boy is trapped - trapped in his room, trapped in his body, trapped in his mind - and all he can do is listen to the laughing and the ticking time bombs behind him as they continue to call.

 _Beep, beep, beep_.

 **0:06, 0:05, 0:04**.

On the other side of the room, the Joker joins in with the shadows. He throws his head back as he guffaws, the veins in his neck popping out with the intensity of his fit. He whips the crowbar in his hand around uncontrollably. If he can feel his end rapidly approaching, he doesn't show any indication that he cares. He just laughs and laughs and laughs, far too tickled by the utterly dead look in the boy's eyes to be concerned about anything else.

Jason only stares, feeling the end as it draws near. Its gentle arms wrap around his shoulders and draw his breath from his chest. In alarm, Jason opens his mouth, tries to scream, but he can't hear anything over the laughter and the ticking of those awful, awful clocks.

Beep, they seem to call louder. **0:03** , they count down.

The boy tries to run, but those gentle, squeezing arms grasp him tighter. He tries to scream again, but a soft, feminine voice hushes him in his ear.

"It's going to be fine, Jason," it - she? - whispers to him, just barely loud enough to hear over the static, the laughter, the clocks.

 _BEEP_ , they ring. **0:02** , they must read.

"It's going to be ok," the voice assures, so quiet and certain

 _BEEP_. **0:01**.

"It's all going to be ok," she says. "I promise, Jason."

 _BEEP_. **0:00**.

There's a _BANG_ , like a dozen firecrackers blowing up right in his ears, and red - so much red. It gobbles up the shadows, the Joker, and all the laughter. Jason expects to follow them into oblivion. He can sense the red nearing and its eagerness to devour his being, but as it grows closer, the gentle arms wrapped around his frame tighten their grip. Bunches of cold, fleshy fingers claw into his arms. An unspoken this one's mine electrifies the air, halting the red in its advance. There's a moment of stillness, of two forces sizing each other up, and then just like that, it's all over. The red retreats, and as black begins to settle, the boy hears one last whisper.

"It's all going to be ok."

Jason startles awake, a strangled gasp trapped in his throat and a vice constricting around his chest. For a split second, the belief that he is still trapped in darkness, surrounded by the Joker and bombs that are just about to blow sky-high, circles through his mind. It pumps his veins full of liquid fear. Jason bolts up, lashing out with a knife that he doesn't remember having, hoping to catch the Joker, the woman, anyone with the sharp edge. All he meets is dead air.

Whipping his head around, Jason searches the room, wide blue eyes scouring for landmarks and threats. Confusion follows. He doesn't recognize the room he's in – not the cot he's lying on, not the long window on the wall in front of him, not the photos pinned of Robin, who is not himself or Dick, on the other side of the room. He wonders what happened to the Joker, the woman, the bombs. He wonders what happened to him. When did he pass out? What knocked him out? How did he get here, wherever here was?

I need to run. I need to get out of here, he thinks desperately when no answer readily comes to him, but he doesn't move. His eyes can find no reason to; except for the knife in his hand, there's nothing in the room that could possibly hurt him. He's safe.

Jason's mind reels with conflicting commands of go, go, go and stay, stay, stay. His body prepares for the former, overloading his system with adrenaline, yet it's the latter directive that he obeys. His muscles shake and seize as they fight off the itch to move. The knife in his hand rattles with every tremble. His skin, already slick with sweat, begins to boil as his insides freeze solid. His breathing stutters and stumbles and tries in vain to catch up with his rapid heartbeat, but his poor lungs just can't manage to suck in enough oxygen to fuel his starved muscles.

From the other side of the room, one of the photos of the unfamiliar Robin smiles tauntingly.

 _What?_ His expression seems to ask. _Can't keep in control? Can't remember how you got here? Pathetic._

Jason knows it's just a picture and that he's not quite thinking straight, but a pang of anger writhes through the cloud of panic, allowing for a beam of bright clarity to cut through his muddled brain. Information comes readily to soothe him, reminding him that he's in London – has been in London long enough to rig his place with numerous traps. It reminds that, in this bedroom alone, he's got half a dozen weapons away, and he knows how to use every one to their fullest potential. He's a dangerous human being, Jason remembers, and that makes him safe within this makeshift fortress of his.

The Joker, the bombs, the manor? They had been nothing more than a bad dream.

Jason breathes a shaky sigh of relief, dropping his shaking hand. With the knife still clenched in a white-knuckled grip between his fingers, he slips it back into its place underneath his pillow. Throwing his legs over the side of the cot, Jason rests his hands in his hands. He starts running through every breathing technique he knows, deflating the overwhelming pressure in his chest and slowing his heart. His tense shoulders ache as they start to unwind.

 _It was just a dream_ , Jason tells himself as he exhales slowly. _Just an awful dream. You've been worked up over nothing._

Yet, he can't fully shake himself of the anxious jitter settled in his limbs. He doesn't understand why. Jason's last few years have been filled with far worse nightmares: crawling out of his own grave into the warehouse in Ethiopia, dancing, laughing crowbars, and probably worst of all, Bruce holding his head under the emerald waters of the Lazarus Pit. So, why should this one bother him so much?

 _"It's going to be ok. It's all going to be ok. I promise, Jason. It's all going to be ok."_

Right. The woman. She was new to his dreams, but in a weird way, Jason knows that she's not new to his life. He remembers her soft voice clearly, the gentle but reserved quality to it. He remembers her touch, lacking in warmth and existing as only a slight pressure against his flesh. He can't remember her, though – what she looks like, where he'd seen her, who she is. Like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit, she doesn't belong in any memory Jason tries to put her in – and that terrifies him. The clarity in his recollections implies intimacy, but how could there have been any if can't remember a single thing about her?

 _"It's all going to be ok."_

A cold shiver runs down Jason's spine and out to his veins, cooling his blood. His stomach rolls, uneasy, and his muscles itch to move.

It hadn't just been the voice that Jason had recognized. It was also the words. Why had she been trying so hard to assure him?

The itch turns into quiet begging, which grows a little louder, a little more urgent, with each passing second. He just wants to get up, go, run, run away, run fast-

"Stop!" Jason snaps, bolting to his feet. He paces the length of the room and rakes his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. _Just stop it. You're overthinking this_ , he tells himself. _Whether it borrows him or not, she was just a meaningless part of his fucked-up nightmare. She isn't some case that he needs to solve. It – she – was just a dream. Move on already._

The command doesn't ease the burning in his muscles. _You're wrong_ , they whisper. _You need to get up and go. You need to run; **why won't you run?**_

Jason sighs heavily. His fingers cease raking his scalp, instead twisting themselves around his ebony strands. He glances at the clock set on the floor beside his cot. The red, blocky numbers read **3:42**. He really should go back to sleep and finish catching up on the hours he'd missed the previous night, but can he when he feels as tightly wound as a gun that's ready to fire?

He finds the answer is no.

 _But I'm only going for a jog_ , Jason tells himself. _If I'm running, it's going to be because I have something to run from._

He doesn't keep his promise. Jason can't help it. His muscles are hungry for the adrenaline left in his veins, and though it's ridiculous, remnants of giddy laughter, steady beeping, and whispered assurances rattle in his skull and chase him through the streets. Jason tries his hardest to outrun their pull, but for all his speed, he's never quite fast enough.

Jason races all over London's nearly deserted streets for what feels like hours. He keeps a rigorous pace, pushing himself harder than he knows he should. His muscles burn with the exertion, and despite his efforts to maintain control, his breathing staggers out of control. His joints hurt the worst, though. They're stabbed with pain every time his shoes smack against the pavement. They cry for relief. Jason doesn't give it.

Finally, his body can't keep up any longer. As Jason turns a sharp corner, he lands heavily on his ankle, blowing it out with one fell sweep. Jason crashes into the pavement and cries out, the blunt impact jarring his entire skeleton. His vision blacks. When light floods back to him a moment later, he thinks, Dumbass.

Shaking his head of the fog, Jason peels himself from the pavement. He groans as he eases back to his feet with the help of a nearby bench. His muscles scream, and the joints in his legs and ankles throb as weight pushes down on them again. Jason panics for a moment, wondering if they'll hold him. Yet, as much as they hurt, he doesn't end up back on his ass.

Jason breathes a sigh of relief. Slumping his shoulders, he turns back in the direction he came from and starts trudging, disregarding the call for rest. He justifies his decision by telling himself that he'll be safer once he's locked himself back in his fortress.

The trek back is slow, monotonous, and in some ways, more exhausting than the preceding run. Retracing his steps shows Jason just how insane the distance he ran is; he realizes how much time he wasted indulging in such an empty mission. Every sharp stab to his ankles and muscles is well-deserved, and he berates himself for allowing himself to be so shaken up by a dream, of all things.

 _I should be better than this,_ he thinks as he stares blankly at the trail ahead. _I thought I was better than this._

He's only a few blocks away from home sweet home when he hears a woman scream. As if they hadn't existed in the first place, his pain and exhaustion are forgotten. Jason bolts in the direction of the cry, his feet thundering against the pavement, and finds the attack near the back door of an apartment complex. Jason wastes no time; he body-slams the older man off the crying woman and stumbles to a stop in front of her.

With the weight of the man gone, the woman quiets and turns her big eyes upward. She blinks at Jason, confused. She doesn't move.

Impatient, Jason shoves her to the back door, snapping, "Go! Run, would ya?"

The woman stumbles, making Jason wince at his insensitivity, but she catches herself before she falls. Then she's off like a rocket, her hair waving goodbye behind her.

Ready for a brawl, Jason turns back to the woman's assailant – only for the smooth edge of a knife to slide between his ribs.

Jason's chest burns as the blade plunges deep inside of him. His breath hitches. His muscles seize. In seconds, Jason is paralyzed. His wide, shocked eyes watch as blood seeps through his sweat-soaked shirt, and then they lift to meet the stare of his aggressor.

The other man is so close. Jason can pick up on every emotion swimming in his eyes: surprise at hitting his mark, fear of what he'd just done, arrogance at the thought that he'll be able to get away.

Jason, on the other hand, is just pissed.

Everything that happens next is a blur of red. Jason's punching, kneeing, throwing, but they're familiar motions he goes throughout without thought. The older man struggles, fighting to escape as much as he can, but the effort is in vain. Jason's grip on him is strong; his anger is stronger – and blinding. He can't see the man's terror through the crimson haze, can't hear his panicked shrieks through his own screaming thoughts.

 _How dare he attack from behind?_ They yell. _How dare he attack a woman? Coward!_

The assault doesn't last long, however. In a last-ditch effort to save himself, the man reaches out and finds the handle of the knife still stuck in Jason's chest. With one frantic pull, the man rips the knife sideways and out, tearing Jason's chest wide open. Jason howls as the stinging electrifies into biting pain and stumbles back into a wall. He grapples to close his arms around his chest, where the trickle of blood erupts into a thick, black waterfall. Jason tries to put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, but the wound is long. His angle is awkward. Blood keeps flowing.

The man takes the opportunity to bolt. Jason grits his teeth in agony and frustration as he watches him go. He thinks, _Lucky bastard_ , because there's no way that he's going to catch the guy. Not tonight. Not in his current state.

So, Jason starts his way home instead, as difficult as it is with his whole body hurting. Every motion he makes has a way of pulling on the wound between his ribs, which screams at the mistreatment. The bruises blossoming across his chest and arms, too, begin to ache, and his overworked muscles cry, _Stop! Please! Rest._ Jason ignores them, drawing strength from the last few remnants of anger left in his system.

Jason stumbles into the apartment complex some minutes later. By now, black spots flicker in his vision unreliably, and sounds are becoming hard to hear. He passes through the lobby silently, calls the elevator with a swift click of the up-arrow button, and rides it to his floor.

As the doors open, Jason staggers out and to his door down the hall. He leaves blood smeared on the handrail and scarlet footsteps in his wake. They go unnoticed.

Jason nearly falls into his apartment as he opens the door, his knees buckling and vision swimming. He stays upright only by the grace of the doorframe, which Jason latches to with a white-knuckled grip. He takes a moment to catch his breath and then rambles as fast as he can to the bathroom.

There, Jason bends down to the examine the dark depths of his sink cabinets. One arm braces him against the counter while the other leaves his chest to sift through the contents inside. The task is daunting; Jason aches to sit down and rest, but even with his hazy state of mind, he knows better than to allow himself a moment of inactivity. He can't have his body shutting down without his permission, not until he's patched up.

He finds the first-aid kit shoved into the back. He pulls it out and stands – only for his vision to go dark and his other senses to die.

The black-out only lasts for a few minutes (he thinks?), but when he comes to, Jason's slumped in the bathtub, his legs dangling over the lip.

Confused, he doesn't move. His brain takes longer to revive than his body, wasting precious time that Jason doesn't even realize he lacks. When he finally reboots enough to continue, he squanders more seconds (minutes?) by adjusting himself, pulling his legs into the tub to spread out. Only when the pressure on his wound dissipates does he finally pop open the first-aid kit in his lap.

Jason fumbles for the scissors first and messily cuts off his shirt. He preps his wound and a military-dressing, patching it to his ribs when everything's ready. He can tell through his swimming vision that he's done a sloppy job, but he decides it doesn't need to be pretty. He just needs it to borrow him a little time, so he can take a moment to breathe and figure out which mob-doctor in this expansive city is closest.

Jason slumps against the tub as he finishes his rudimentary patch-job, the last of his adrenaline evaporating. He takes deep breaths, ignoring the screaming of his vertebrae as they grind against the fiberglass rim. His muscles unwind; his eyelids fall shut, even as a voice that sounds suspiciously like Bruce whisper to him, "You can't relax like this, Jason. If you do, you're dead. You don't want to die again, do you?"

Jason doesn't, not for a long time yet, but he's so tired. The imminent darkness promises to soothe all his hurts. He takes its word for it and slips asleep.

When he awakes, there's no telling how much time has passed. Truthfully, Jason doesn't care to find out. His limbs ache something fierce, his side throbs at his past mistreatment, and his insides appear to have been turned to ice. In his condition, he's happy to have woken up at all.

As he pries his eyelids open, he pulls his arms up from his sides to grab the edge of the tub. Jason freezes just before he pushes himself up, his blue eyes training on the unfamiliar figure dressed in black at the other end of the bathtub.

An empty smile curls at the edges of the woman's lips as she catches his gaze. With one leg crossed over the other, she sits leaning back against the wall behind her, appearing eerily professional and clean amidst the blood smeared on the counters, the floor, the walls. Her eyes are sad as she says, "Looks like you've gone and made a mess of things again, haven't you, Jason?"

She knows his name – his real name, which is long dead, just as he should be. How could she possibly know it?

A cold tendril of dread coils in Jason's stomach. He barks, "How did you get in the apartment?" Or, he tries, anyway. He finds he can barely raise his voice above a harsh whisper.

The woman must understand him, though. She quirks an eyebrow as if surprised by the question, but it fades quickly into disappointment. "Hm. Didn't expect you of all people to forget me," she says, her foot beginning to bob to a beat Jason can't hear. "Shame. I was looking forward to catching up."

 _Catching up?_ Since when did Jason know this woman? Since when did he have a relationship with her, especially one strong enough that he thought it best to give her his address and all the go-arounds to his security measures? And what could she possibly want from him?

Jason's head swims. His thoughts struggle against the ocean of confusion he's drowning in. While barely realizing it, he pushes himself up from the tub and to his feet, despite the ripping pain in his side. He stumbles over the rim of the tub, his entire being shaking – from blood-loss or fear, he's not sure. He thinks frantically, I need to get out of here before she kills me.

And she will kill him if he doesn't hurry, Jason knows. She has to be an assassin. It's the only explanation that makes sense. The list of people that know who he is and where he lives at any given time is short; the list of those who know how to disarm his trips is even shorter, and this lady sure as hell would never in a thousand years make it on either.

On the other hand, the number of those who want to see his head on a pike are far too many to count.

"Then why aren't you dead?" that Bruce-like voice asks. He makes a great point, but Jason figures he can worry about that when he's not bleeding out or in danger of being easily overpowered.

As he comes to a stand, Jason slumps against the wall. His legs shake under his weight, but once he's as steady as he's going to get, he steps out of the tub – only for his knee to buckle as soon as he places a little weight on it. Jason lurches and crashes into the edge of the sink a few feet away, his side burning as it rips open wider. A hiss slides between his teeth. Jason hunches over the sink and squeezes his eyes shut, fiery phantasms dancing across his eyelids. When the pain dulls to a low roar a few minutes later, Jason releases the breath he'd been holding and glances to the side.

Except for her bobbing foot, the woman hasn't moved. Catching his stare, she says, "You should lie back down, Jason. You're only making yourself hurt worse. It's not worth it."

Jason finds her statement so stupid and so confusing that he wants to scream. He doubts his voice will let him, so he glowers as he stumbles past her instead. Even in his awful state, maybe the fire in his eyes will give her reason to think twice about her plans, whatever they are.

The woman sighs. Closing her eyes, she shakes her head.

It's not the reaction Jason was going for, but it's not an attack, either. Jason takes what he can get.

The woman remains still and calm as Jason passes beside her. The only part of her that moves is her eyes, which follow Jason into the bedroom.

 _Wrong move_ , Jason thinks. He moves to his backpack, which sits at the foot of his cot, and pulls his favorite handgun from the front pocket. He glances over his shoulder; the woman now stands with her arms crossed in the door-frame. His finger itches to close around the trigger and open fire on the intruder, but… she hasn't done anything to warrant it. At least, not yet. Jason will just have to wait to see if she gives him a reason to dispatch her.

In the meantime, his side is still bleeding. It's time to go already.

Jason leaves his apartment finally, throwing on a hoodie to hide his injuries on his way out. He rides the elevator, where the blood has already dried and turned brown, to the garage and walks the short distance to his motorcycle.

Jason's careful as he lifts his leg over his bike. His side begins to burn – that telltale sign that he's pulling at his wound again. It abates some as he settles in, but Jason still must catch his breath before he finally sticks his key into the ignition, beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his face.

Having followed him, the woman watches wordlessly as Jason backs his bike out of its spot. Her eyes gleam with lingering sorrow, and disapproval is clear in the downturn of her lips. She shakes her head as she calls, "You're never going to make it. You'll crash long before you ever get there. You know that, right?"

Jason casts her one last glare, gives her the bird, and zooms off, happy to be rid of her.

Contrary to what the woman believes, Jason doesn't die on his way to the good doctor's house. He almost did – twice. The first time is his fault, having nodded off for a second and drifted into oncoming traffic. However, Jason will always blame the second instance, when he'd nearly run straight into a streetlamp, on the woman.

How the bloody hell had she beaten him to the doctor's townhouse?

Jason gapes as he parks and slips off his bike. One glance around the driveway tells him that she has no vehicle – at least nearby. Even if she had one somewhere else, Jason hadn't seen her pass him on the way over, and he'd taken the most direct route while speeding. Short of being a speedster, there was no way that she could have beaten him.

Yet, there she stands at the base of the house's steps, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, impressed.

"You're worse than the damned Winchesters, you know that?" she calls almost affectionally.

Jason doesn't know what that means, nor whether it's good or bad, but the woman doesn't look like she's going to do anything about it – still. If she's an assassin, she's the worst that Jason's ever met. The speediest, but all around awful at her job.

Acting on the faith that the woman would remain docile, Jason wanders cautiously to and up the steps. The woman just watches, her head swiveling to train him. When Jason shoots the lock on the door and disappears inside the house, she doesn't even follow.

Fine by Jason. It makes his job of storming the house easier.

Fortunately, Jason's been here a few times before for minor injuries and, more importantly, for surveillance. Just as he guesses, he finds his saving grace – one Dr. Ivan Petrov – in the luxurious master bedroom with a hooker who screams as he bursts through the door.

"Dmitri!" Petrov yelps, using Jason's current alias. "W-What is this? What are you doing?"

"Get dressed," Jason orders as he picks up the pair's clothing from the floor and tosses it to them. Giving the hooker a sympathetic look, he jerks his head towards the open doorway. She scurries out immediately, leaving Jason and the doctor alone. Jason's expression hardens as he turns back to Petrov. "I need a patch-job."

The doctor knows Jason and his reputation. He doesn't dare try to refuse.

Once the doctor's dressed, the two relocate to the kitchen. The room isn't set-up for an emergency stitching, so the doctor hurries to pull out all the utensils he'll need from the cupboards while Jason unzips his jacket and lays down on the wooden table.

In a few minutes, the doctor's rolling up a wheeled tray to Jason's wounded side. He's shaking and sweating, no doubt because of the handgun that hasn't wavered from his head, and his voice quivers as he says, "You may feel a pinch here in one moment. I am going to administer a dose of painkillers, as I usually do."

"Just get on with it," Jason snaps.

With a jump, the doctor does, the table rattling as his fingers fumble for his tools.

Jason lowers his aching arm to the table as he takes a steadying sigh, his eyelids falling shut. His lack of sight makes him exceptionally aware of his other senses, like the slick of sweat covering every inch of his flesh, the dry scent of blood burning his nostrils, and the taste of salt on his tongue. His side throbs with heat, dulling the feel of the doctor's probing fingers, but the rest of him is cold. Exhaustion weighs on his eyelids, even when closed, and sleep calls to him once more. Jason longs to answer after his long night, but he stands his ground – he has to, really. The doctor and he may have a working relationship, but not too many took kindly to being interrupted in the early morning hours, especially at gunpoint. Who was to say the man wouldn't accidentally slip up and stitch him up wrong? Or you know, just let him bleed to death?

Even with his firm decision, it still doesn't stop sleep from pulling at his consciousness. Jason forces his eyelids open to dissuade temptation and turns his head to the side, searching for something – anything – interesting to catch his interest and keep him awake.

He finds the woman leaning against a counter, her arms crossed tightly her chest once more and her solemn expression beginning to show signs of exasperation.

 _When did she get in? I would've heard her_ , Jason thinks in alarm, his eyes widening. He glances back at the doctor, but the frightened man's gaze is locked onto Jason's side as he works. _And how hasn't he noticed her, either?_

"I'd forgotten how much of a persistent piece of shit you are," the woman comments, her voice dead. "And lucky, too. Can't forget that."

Jason doesn't understand. Why is she telling him this? What's made him persistent in this woman's eyes? His fight to survive the night? That hasn't been persistence; it's self-preservation. And she thinks him lucky, of all things? Is she serious? Jason's lying on a kitchen table, getting stitched up by a doctor who had had his license revoked years ago. The truly lucky one was the cowardly son of a bitch that had brought him this low and had gotten away with it.

Glancing up at the doctor at his side, Jason checks to see if the man's acknowledged the woman yet. He hasn't, as far as Jason can tell. But how? Had he suddenly become blind, deaf, and dumb since starting to work on him?

The woman more than makes up for the doctor's lack of observance. "Leave the man alone, would ya? He's trying to save your life – again."

Jason's heartbeat begins to pick up as he turns his gaze back to the woman, confused and a little fearful. With her growing frustration and her knowledge of his life becoming more apparent, Jason thinks that he should start worrying. His grip grows tighter around his handgun for comfort, but for an explicable reason, there's a tingling in the back of his mind that says, _You think a gun's gonna stop her?_

The woman suddenly drops her arms and pushes off from the counter. Her flats clap against the tiled floor like thunder. Her eyes train on Jason's, who starts and shakily raises his gun at her, despite it feeling like a wasted effort.

On the other side of him, the doctor asks in alarm, "Dmitri? What is wrong?"

The woman stops just inches from the barrel. She peers down at it, unperturbed, and raises a hand to brush her fingers against Jason's clammy flesh. She pauses before she makes contact, her hand hovering mere centimeters from his.

Jason's jaw clenches as he waits for her to close the distance. His finger twitches on the trigger, waiting for the woman to give him any reason to fire.

She never gives him one. The woman drops her hand, seemingly thinking better of it, and sighs, her frustrating draining into sorrow once more. "Like I said, you're a lucky bastard today. I can't linger any longer, not when you won't give me what I want." She pauses. "But I promise you, this won't be the last time we meet. You better remember me next time I see you."

"But who even are you?" Jason croaks, his voice scratching like sandpaper against his throat, making him wince.

"My name's Tessa," the woman replies, her voice cold and void. "and I'm your reaper."

Jason doesn't get a chance to ask what she means. In a moment, she vanishes right before his eyes with what sounds like the whoosh of wings, leaving her words rattling ominously within Jason's head.

* * *

 **Hooooo brother... Yeah. It's been an obnoxiously long time. I totally do realize that, all you who even bothered to show up to this thing. Please don't hate me too much. Guess what I did during the last two years? Moved some more, changed schools a few times, co-wrote and published two novels (check out my profile for more details! All proceeds go to scholarships~!), amongst other things. I also went through a writing funk where I couldn't write a damn thing without rewriting it a minimum of 3 dozens times. It's been a journey.**

 **But anywho, this chapter is finally out! I hope it's not total garbage. If it is, oh well. Regardless, a second chapter (and a third and a fourth and a fifth) will be out eventually! No idea when. Depends on life, but I will write as swiftly as I can. Thank you to all those who read this this far! You da best.**

 **And a special shoutout goes to my friend, Puff Grayson (who is account-less)! She not only read this piece of crap multiple times and gave me feedback each time, but she also designed my beautiful cover. What a saint she is.**


	2. Second Encounter

**2.**

He's dreaming just like all other nights, but this time, Jason knows it.

He sprints, hurrying as fast as he can into a blank horizon. For having been running for hours, his muscles are surprisingly free of aches, and his breaths don't come out in sputtering gasps. Even his quick footfalls are silent; Jason figures he must be flying. The only sound that he can hear is his pounding heart, which pounds into his ribcage, not from exertion but from fright.

Jason chances a look over his shoulder, even knowing that it's not a good idea. All he sees is angry red flames engulfing the land behind him and nipping at his heels. The pounding of his heart grows harder and louder.

It's not real. Jason knows it, but the panic crushing his chest is. He doesn't want to be burned alive again. He doesn't want to die.

"Wake up!" he yells at himself, just as he pushes his feet to go faster. "You need to wake up!"

He doesn't.

Jason doesn't know what to do. He knows what comes next if he doesn't wake up. His heart physically aches, even so far lost in his dreamscape, at the thought of going through the next part again.

He glances one more time behind him. The flames graze his ankles, his legs, the back of his shirt. His heart leaps, nearly bursting from his chest, and without his eyes pointed forward to see oncoming obstacles, Jason suddenly stumbles. He pinwheels and tries to right himself, but there's no stopping his descent.

Jason falls down, down, down – past the ground and into hell, where a pit of green, bubbling water grows ever bigger. Jason flails, reaching for anything of which to get ahold, but there's nothing, and the water speeds closer. Seconds before he hits the surface, Jason throws his hands over his eyes, waits for the impact and the snapping of bones and pain shooting through his body, but –

This time, he doesn't hit the water.

Jason gasps awake. His eyes shoot open, searching for a danger that's already slipping from his memory, but all he can see is darkness. He starts to think, What happened?, but a wave of heat slams into him before he can finish the thought. Jason moans as he swelters. Sweat soaks his boiling skin, and thick droplets gather at his hairline. Jason tries to reach up and wipe some beads from his eyes, but his knuckles are tangled in cloth.

"What the hell?" Jason mutters, words slurred. He tugs his hands free and rolls as best as he can onto his side. Whatever the cloth is, it's wrapped around all his sides. He struggles against it and wiggles the top half of his body from his cocoon, so he's lying on his back with his arms freed.

Outside of his bindings is his bathroom with its popcorn ceiling. The toilet is to the left of his head, the bathtub to the right. The thickest blanket that Jason owns rests atop him – the cause of the sweltering heat – and under his head, Jason can feel his well-worn pillow. In the next room, Bugs Bunny's taunting voice echoes from the TV.

Right. He's in his apartment, just as he's been for the last three days, sick with infection.

As soon as it comes back to him, Jason's stomach rolls. The remaining adrenaline rushes out of him, and while the heat doesn't stop simmering just beneath the surface of his skin, a block of ice nestled in his chest becomes apparent. He turns onto his side, his back to the toilet, and he realizes why he had grabbed such an insulated blanket, even as his sweat soaks into the polyester.

Shudders rack Jason's body up and down as he lays curled on his side, trying to summon an inner warmth, the strength to keep the bile in his hurting stomach, and enough peace to fall asleep once more. No amount of shivering can help the first. Jason barely manages the second with what remains of his willpower, and the third has been a lost cause since before the young man can even remember. He drifts in semi-consciousness, visions of another lifetime ago flashing across his darkened eyelids, making the ache in his stomach all the worse.

Jason moans. He clutches his blanket tightly, drawing it as close as he can to himself. In his fever dreams, he sees Batman. He's far away, cast completely in shadow – really, nothing more than a silhouette. He darts here and there, practically fading in and out of existence. Jason can't keep up with him, nor can he predict where he'll appear next. Though he's lying on the floor with his eyes shut, vertigo threatens to overwhelm him as he forgets that he's not physically spinning around and around, trying to keep up with the phantom.

"Stop. Stop," Jason murmurs. It takes more energy than it should to say the words. "Please, just stop."

A sigh. The illusion shatters, Batman's flickering form evaporating as a dose of reality enters the equation. Jason's awareness washes back into him. He remembers that the darkness is merely his closed eyelids, not a prison.

"Open your eyes, Jason," a voice calls.

Jason obeys without question. The fluorescent bathroom lights blind him again for a moment, but when the intensity dies down, he's overcome with déjà vu.

From her perch on the rim of the bathtub, one leg crossed over the other and still dressed all in black, Tessa stares down at him. She waves down at him, despite the tired disappointment on her face, and says, "Hello Jason."

Maybe it's the exhaustion that chains his body to the floor and his mind half in delusion, or maybe it's just the sheer shock of seeing her, but Jason doesn't reply so politely.

"You're back?" he asks.

Tessa must be a fairly understanding person. She doesn't react to the lack of greeting, only nods. "Unfortunately. Trust me when I say it's unplanned." She pauses, uncertain about continuing, but hesitantly adds, "You don't usually call me back this quickly."

Even with struggling to keep a grip on reality, Jason knows for sure he hasn't called this woman. He wouldn't need to; as far as he's concerned, Tessa's just some hallucination of his – something that took a good night's rest to figure out last week. Why she is what she is, he doesn't know. She doesn't look or act like anyone he's known. Her name nor her cryptic "I'm a reaper" bit have any significance to him. She is entirely a new being, built from the ground up by Jason.

Yet, with the way she says "call", Jason feels like she means something else – something that he's not necessarily supposed to get right off the bat, if at all. How can that happen if she's from his mind?

"I never called you," Jason slurs. His eyelids droop, as though speaking is an energy vacuum, sucking up whatever bit of it he has left.

Tessa hums. "Yes, you did. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Jason shakes his head. "But I didn't-"

"Not everything is conventional, Jason," Tessa interrupts. "nor can everything be explained. Of all people, you should know that best."

Jason flinches. Years have passed since his resurrection, but he had yet to find anything to justify the absolute hell that he's been through since crawling out of his grave. (To be fair, though, it's not like he's been actively looking for an explanation. Jason will never admit it, but he doesn't know which he finds more terrifying: finding answers or finding that his second life is just another accident in a long line of them.)

Yet, even while knowing Tessa's statement to be true, Jason can't help the Batman-like response that comes out of his mouth next.

"Everything can be explained in one way or another." He raises his hand an inch from the floor and points at the woman. "Like you. You're just a hallucination."

To Jason's surprise, Tessa barely reacts to the revelation. She rolls her eyes as if she's heard it a million times before. "Believe what you want. It doesn't change a thing."

Her statement sends chills down Jason's spine. He'd been contemplating letting the sleep weighing on his eyelids take him once more, but he opens them wide again, fighting against it. He shouldn't; he knows that, through Tessa, he's just scaring himself, but his instincts disagree, telling him, To sleep is to leave yourself exposed. Don't give her any openings. She'll take any she can get.

"Why are you here?" Jason asks, his scratchy voice only a slight whisper.

"Do I need a reason?" Tessa asks, tilting her head towards him. "According to you, I'm just a hallucination. What reason have you given me for existing at this moment in time?" Her voice drips with sarcasm. So, she isn't aware of the circumstances of her existence, after all. She doesn't even seem to really care about it, either.

"I don't know. I asked you because I thought you would know," Jason replies. Towards the end of his statement, his vision blurs, his eyes crossing. He blinks a few times, willing the tiredness away. When he looks back at Tessa, her hands are clenched together in her lap, her knuckles turning white.

"I don't know why you would dream me, Jason," she says. "I don't need to know. I'm just here to do a job."

Jason's vision blurs again and then, darkens. He blinks, which brings the light back for a moment, but the darkness is persistent, coming back after a moment. With effort, Jason rolls onto his stomach and props himself on his forearms to try and force himself to stay awake. His muscles strain to keep him upright, and as his eyes bore holes into the floor, he asks, "And what job is that, exactly?"

Out of the corner of Jason's eyes, Tessa's leg shifts as she moves to cross her ankles, the motion looking almost like a nervous wringing of hands. He doesn't know if it's from some growing aggravation at being questioned or if she's uncomfortable with where the topic of conversation is going.

"Does it really matter what it is?" she asks.

This is probably the least productive conversation that Jason's ever had in his life. Despite all the questions they like to ask – so many of them being, "Does this matter?" – they rarely like to answer. They're going nowhere fast, and while Jason wants to be irritated, he can't help his spark of curiosity at their situation. If she's merely a product of his imagination, then what's there to hide from each other?

"No, I guess not," Jason answers as he sets himself on his stomach before his muscles finally give in. "but I would like to know anyhow."

Tessa doesn't answer at first. With his face half-buried in the pillow, Jason can only see her shins clearly, which aren't exactly the best emotional indicators. He tries to lift his head, manages to get a little bit of a way up, but tires of it fast. Resigned to his fate, he drops back down and waits to see if the woman will answer at all.

It's a few minutes before she says, "My job has two parts. The first part - comforting the dying – is my favorite. The second part..."

Whether it's for her sake or Jason's, Tessa hesitates.

Jason knows she won't continue without prying. "The second part what?"

Tessa tip-taps one foot against the ground, starting a rhythm that Jason doesn't recognize. "I'm not ashamed of it if that's what you're thinking. I love my job. I help people, but those looking from the outside don't often agree."

"Why?"

"How many people do you know are comfortable with the idea of dying?"

"What does that have to do with your job?"

"The core of my job revolves around the dead and the dying. They hate it, and for that, they hate me. You'll hate me too when I tell you."

Jason hates a lot of people, but he can't see himself hating Tessa. Sure, there was a lot not to like – her bad timing, the way she talks in circles, the chill that she sends up Jason's spine – but she's still a part of himself. Jason's not his own biggest fan, but at least with Tessa, he's not so lonely.

He lifts his head from the pillow, ready to tell her so, but she beats him to the punch. "Jason, my job is to reap souls. When I told you I was your reaper, I meant that I'm the one who'll be taking you to your personal heaven when the time comes."

Jason turns his head up to the woman, his eyes widening to the size of saucers.

With storm clouds in her eyes, her lips twisted into a frown, Tessa returns his gaze, silently asking, "Forgive me. I'm only doing what's right."

Jason gapes. Despite all his dreams, his anxieties, his anger, he hadn't in a million years expected this to be her reason for existing. He couldn't believe his subconscious would be so cruel, though he guesses he should've seen it coming. Through Tessa, it had given him plenty of clues, all of which he was either too stupid or too scared to notice. He'd been so wrapped up in her just being present and figuring that out that he hadn't even thought about the implications in her statements.

It might be the infection, but Jason starts feeling sick.

"Jason?" Tessa calls. She reaches out to nudge him with her foot, and before Jason even flinches, she thinks better of it. She crosses her ankles again and leans forward. She says, "I told you. You didn't listen, as always."

He doesn't want to hear it. Jason turns over on his other side as quickly as he can and throws the blanket back over his head, despite how hot he is. He doesn't think about how pathetic he feels as he curls himself into a tight ball or the implications of what Tessa's told him. She's not real; she's a product of his masochistic imagination. Maybe she'd been in his past, after all, watching over him anytime he'd been beaten, broken, sick, or about to be blown up. He doesn't go looking for her in his memories, though; he doesn't think about how real she's starting to feel. He doesn't think about anything, really, except sleep, which he begs silently to take him once more.

In time, the darkness takes Jason back. This time, despite the unease twisting his stomach into knots, he sees no dreams, no phantoms. He rests.

When Jason wakes back up later, the heat under his skin has mostly vanished. His aching has gone down, the ice in his stomach has melted, and he feels the most refreshed he has in ages. Strange, considering the state he'd been in when he'd fallen asleep.

Jason pushes himself up from the floor with a groan, stiffness set in his limbs. Rubbing his eyes, he glances around, searching for something for which his awakening brain doesn't have a name. His bathroom turns up empty except for himself and the screams of Wile E. Coyote in the next room.

Tessa is gone. For how long, Jason doesn't know.

* * *

 **I'm so happy that I got another chapter written, this time significantly faster than the last one. I might actually be getting my groove back! WOOOOO! Anywho, I hope anyone who read this next installment is pleased! I'd like to thank my amazing beta-reader once again for making sure it's not total garbage! Couldn't do it without you, Puff Grayson!**

 **Thanks to those who favorited/followed: _AnimeGamerGirl23, EmpressNightPanda, TheoriginalAmazingOne, Kokuryuha, Maddy and Alice, and Not-Gonna-Update._**

 **Also, a big thanks to those - _DFkC, PHOENIX1020, Sparky-ykrapS_ \- for leaving me such kind reviews! I appreciate you guys, and thanks for the welcome back. **


	3. Third Encounters

**3.**

After their encounter in his bathroom, Jason doesn't see Tessa again for half a year. It's an intentional move where Jason removes himself from any direct line of fire that he can. He still works, even upping his workload from before the infection, but he goes about it in a different fashion. If he doesn't have to put himself in someone's crosshairs, he doesn't. If it can't be avoided, no biggie. He finds an expendable but adequate stand-in and lets them take care of the dirty work. If they fail, he takes his plans in an entirely new direction. In six shorts months, he becomes more like Batman than he'd ever wanted to be.

It's not a decision that Jason makes lightly. It's just the best option he has. After his and Tessa's last exchange, he can't bear to see her again – at least, not so soon after his recovery. As it is, he struggles to push her unsettling words from his head, despite his efforts to forget them. They're distracting, and he knows that if he keeps barreling on as he usually does, it'll only land him right back in the situation he's trying to avoid.

So, he stays hidden and learns to manipulate when he used to bulldoze.

But manipulation, working from the shadows, staying quiet – none of it comes naturally to Jason. His nature is loud and hands-on. His brain overflows with ideas that he himself needs to carry out. It nearly kills Jason to see others act out his plans, even if that's his idea too.

Hence his current predicament.

With the grace of a baby deer learning to walk, Jason slams into the warehouse wall and collapses on his ass. Stabbing pain explodes in his side as he hits the ground, causing him to yelp. His crisscrossed hands press into his abdomen as he tries to stop the blood-flow. Jason squeezes his eyes shut, locks his jaw, and holds his breath, waiting for the sharpness to dull. He counts the seconds, trying to make them go by faster.

 _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10_...

Thick, dark blood leaks between his fingers, soaking his gloves. The pain gradually begins to subside, and Jason releases his breath. Cool sweat streaks down his warm face, tickling his skin. His muscles twitch, wanting him to get up, but just the thought of it causes his wound to flare up again. Jason knocks his head into the behind him with a frustrated moan and thinks, _Damn it, you idiot. You've gotten rusty._

Jason takes another deep breath. He focuses on the in and out rush of air in his throat, the rise and fall of his chest. The more he thinks about breathing, the less he thinks about the bullet wound. If he just keeps breathing, everything will be alright.

"Oh, Jason..."

Jason freezes, his breath hitching and heart skipping a beat. His hands grab at his wound, squeezing it tighter as if reaching for an ounce of comfort.

He knows that voice. He hates that voice. He'd hoped to never that voice again.

Jason opens his eyes and looks up, unable to believe that she's come back as quickly as she had left him.

Tessa shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. She trails her eyes over his hunched form, taking in his wounds. Her disappointed smile is suspiciously absent today, replaced with an empty frown, but her exasperated tone hasn't changed in the least.

"Are you ever going to learn?"

He should've known that she'd come tonight. He should've better prepared himself for this. He'd been stupid to hope that she'd be a temporary thing.

Jason breaks out into shakes. Whether from the blood-loss or seeing Tessa again, he's not entirely sure. He was only supposed to be here for a weapons auction, which wasn't all that dangerous. He had just wanted a few new toys, but – there'd been a man. He'd been bragging, telling everyone, "I managed to snag her out of her room without making a sound! She woke up, but the gun kept her quiet. How old? Probably nine, I think. Squirmy little thing, she was." His voice had been so light. His steps had held a skip in them. He was so happy to strip an innocent child of their life and stability.

Jason knew the fear the girl would be in. He'd felt it when he was young, too.

Jason had seen nothing but red after that. He couldn't remember anything up until he had felt the bullet rip into his side, knocking him from his high and landing him squarely back on planet Earth.

That child is now relying on him, Jason realizes. It's like a splash of frigid water against his face. He's sure that the parents have called the police by now, but the police don't have his resources, his knowledge, his freedom. He's the one with the best chance of finding the child before she's sold off, scarred for life, or even... he can't finish the thought.

The girl needs him – right now. He needs to go.

"Jason?" Tessa calls like an exasperated mother after her distracted child.

Jason's eyes come back into focus just in time to see Tessa tilt her head, eyebrows quirked at him. He opens his mouth to say... something, though he's not sure what, but nothing comes, not even a curse. He doesn't have it in him to be frustrated with her when there's a more important issue needing to be taken care of. If anything, he's more frustrated with himself for imaging her and letting himself be distracted by her very presence.

And then the truth hits him like a freight train come from nowhere – she's not real. He's never had to give her any attention. Jason doesn't owe Tessa anything.

"Jason?" Tessa calls again.

For a moment longer, Jason stares, taking in her and her growing confusion. Then his resolve hardens in his chest. He lets his gaze slide right through the woman and to the warehouse beyond. Her presence still presses into his chest, but unable to pierce his stare with her darkened eyes, the weight lessens.

 _Good_ , he thinks. He has a child to save and work to catch up on.

Tessa shifts her weight from one leg to the other, trying to slip back into Jason's line of sight again but to no avail. "What? Did you hit your head too?"

Jason doesn't answer, doesn't look at her, doesn't even react to the sound of her voice. Gritting his teeth, he pulls his feet under himself. He clutches his wound with one hand and puts his other against the wall to steady himself. On shaky knees, he rises from the ground. Pinpricks of pain, imperceptible on their own but overpowering together, burst alive as he stands, the wound stretching with his movements. Jason chokes on a moan, refusing to let it surface.

Tessa's voice rises in volume and exasperation. "Jason?"

As far as Jason's concerned, she's not even standing there. He lets her voice slip in one ear and out the other. He won't encourage the delusion anymore.

Pushing himself off the wall, Jason takes his first stumbling step towards the warehouse exit. He grunts as another shock of pain explodes to life, but he won't let that stop him. He takes another step, which is followed by another. His feet drag against the concrete floor, the rubbery soles squeaking in protest. He passes by Tessa, who's nothing more than a shadow in his peripheral. She watches him, he can feel, but she doesn't move to follow him.

Tessa sighs. "Don't you ever get tired of this?"

The question almost makes Jason stumble.

Tired of what, he wonders? Of the fight? Of getting thrashed? Of building himself up after every time he gets knocked down?

 _Sure_ , he thinks about all of them. Jason looks around the warehouse. Folding tables rest flipped on their sides and upside down, peppered with bullet holes. Cooling bodies lay sprawled on the ground, on each other, against the walls, in the rivers of their drying blood. Their guns lay with them. Spilled ammo glints in the fluorescent lighting. There's destruction in every corner of the room, and more will follow him as he hunts down the kidnapped child, but for now, all Jason can think is, _but it's all worth it_.

He leaves the scene with Tessa following right behind him, just as sirens begin to wail in the distance. At home, he stitches himself back up under her careful eye – a task that he finds harder than he first imagined, given his shaking hands, lack of practice, and nervousness. The job doesn't turn out terrible, though, and at the end of it, Jason's satisfied with his work.

Jason lays down to rest as the sun begins to break the horizon. The early morning light peeks through the windows and chases away the shadows looming over Jason. He drifts to sleep, Tessa fading away with the darkness, a slump in her shoulders.

* * *

"Shit."

Rain pelts Jason's helmet as he zooms along on his motorcycle, making it difficult to see. He squints out of habit, though no water can reach his eyes, and centers his attention on the truck's bright red taillights – the only part of the vehicle that he can see anymore. They're disappearing fast into the night, their diameter shrinking with every second. Panic rushes through Jason.

"Fuck."

Jason can't let the truck get away. He needs the men inside. As far as he's been able to find, the men are the only two people left in the world that know what's happened to Johanna Mayer, the little girl who had been kidnapped, having been part of the kidnapping itself. Jason killed their accomplice at the weapons auction, and now, if he loses these two, he may not find them again. They're essentially ghosts with no permanent haunts or paper trails, and only by accident has Jason managed to track them this far.

Though this should be easy, keeping up with them has proven to be more difficult than Jason originally believed it would be. A thick layer of leaves coats the road, and in partnership with the night and rain, they hide the wide potholes, and his bike threatens to slip out from under him on every hairpin turn. Individually, Jason could take each issue on with no ill-effects, but all together? He needs to slow down while the douches in front of him continue to zip along like none of these factors can touch them. They know this backroad well.

The glimmering red taillights blink in and out of existence, disappearing and reappearing around corners and through trees, almost like they're mocking him. Jason growls under his breath, his chest constricting with every inch that the two lackeys gain on him. His grip on his handlebars tightens. If Jason wants to catch the scumbags, he's going to need to speed up.

As if in warning, Jason drives straight into a puddle. Water sprays everywhere, and Jason's bike skims the surface of the asphalt, almost as if it isn't touching the ground at all. For a moment, Jason can't steer. His heart lurches as his headlights reveal another hairpin rapidly approaching. He lets up on the gas, lets the bike go where it wants, and when it's finally time to turn, the wheels miraculously catch. Jason drifts around the bend without another issue.

Jason's heart pounds hard against his chest, and he releases a breath that he'd choked down without realizing. His muscles tremble with fear, but as he always does, Jason shoves it to the side. Hitting the throttle, Jason takes off faster than he'd dared to go all night. The roar of his heartbeat, the tenseness in his muscles and chest, and the chill of the rain fade into a dull thrum in the back of his mind. The red, glimmering lights begin to grow once more.

In a few minutes, Jason closes in on the truck. The white paint glares in his headlights, almost bright enough to blind him. His fingers itch to grab at the gun secured on his thigh. He's so close; he just needs to move in a few more feet, and then he'll be ready to shoot out the back tires.

Jason nudges the bike forward a little more, accelerating just slightly. He creeps into range, and with practiced ease, he takes one hand from the handlebars and reaches for his gun, undoing the clasp.

Without warning, Tessa suddenly materializes out of the back of the truck, as if it had simply passed through her still form. She stands in his path like a sentinel, unflinching.

Jason gasps and instinctually reaches for the breaks. He runs straight into a pothole instead. Jason lurches, and with only one hand steering, the bike jerks to the left and slips on the wet leaves. It skids for a second and then tips. It's like Jason has grown wings. He flies off the bike and through the air like a speeding bullet, still chasing those red taillights. He's airborne for only a few seconds.

His shoulder slams into the ground first, shattering his bone, his senses, his entire world. He rolls across the slick asphalt head over heels, his leather gear tearing and his body collecting bone fractures, abrasions, bruising. His vision goes dark, and yet, all at once, Jason feels himself tumbling, tumbling, tumbling along the road while also having the sensation of being outside his own body.

Jason's consciousness slams back into his body just as it comes to a halt. His vision returns after, the darkness creeping away just in time for him to see the red taillights blink out of existence, the truck disappearing over the crest of a hill.

Jason opens his mouth to curse, but before he can, the pain hits him all over again like a semi. His whole body throbs, and every other moment, a new part of him feels as though it's been stabbed with knives endlessly. It fills his brain with static. He squeezes his eyes shut to quiet the noise, but without the distraction of rain pattering on his cracked visor, the pain only screams louder.

Rolling off his side and onto his back, Jason chokes on his breath once, twice, three times. On his fourth, he finally draws in a huge, gulping breath and _screams_. For ten whole seconds, he unleashes his anguish, overpowering the _shhh_ of the rain with ease. He stops only to take another breath, this one ending in a sob.

Oh _God_ , how he _hurts_. Pain has always been an intrinsic part of Jason's life, but _holy fuck_ , only his death at the Joker's hands tops this. Forget individual injuries – Jason's entire existence feels like one big open wound.

Without comprehension, Jason watches the rain as it pelts his helmet's shattered visor, gasping. Tears well in the corners of his eyes, even as he tells himself, _No. Don't you cry. You knew this could happen. You don't get to cry._ Jason blinks the wetness away, blurring his vision for a second. When it returns, Tessa's silhouette looms above him. He can't see any details, but from the jutting of her elbows at her side, she's crossed her arms over her chest.

The sight of the woman invites Jason's infamous rage to the surface, and unable to resist the call, it bubbles to life in his aching chest. Like so many times, it scorches his insides and spreads through his entire body like an infection.

Tessa makes it worse by greeting flippantly, "That looked like it hurt."

Jason bites his tongue, stopping himself before he unwittingly lets up on his silent treatment. It takes every ounce of willpower he's got left in him. Because of _her_ , he wrecked. Because of _her_ , two fuckers with the life of a child in their hands have gotten away from him. Jason doesn't even want to begin to think about how much distance he's going to have to make up to catch up with them.

Speaking of which, he needs to go. He can't waste any more time just lying here on the pavement, waiting for a car to finish the job.

Gritting his teeth and holding in a deep breath, Jason eases himself onto his side, despite the burning and stabbing ripping through him. Water soaks through his clothes and on the wounds that he hasn't identified yet. Screams threaten to wrench themselves from his throat, but again and again, Jason chokes them down. He rolls onto his stomach, jostling his fractured ribs, and gathers his limbs under himself. He rises from the ground slowly, careful not to move too fast in the event that his legs decide to give out. Maybe it's his patience, maybe it's determination, or maybe it's both, but somehow, someway, Jason finds himself standing on his own two feet, despite his shrieking ankles, shins, and torn muscles.

"Gonna give me the silent treatment again, are you?"

Jason ignores her voice. He spots his trashed motorcycle some distance down the road, its headlight still miraculously beaming. Hunched over and holding his aching ribs, he takes his first trudging step in its direction. His breaths come in sputters and gasps. His heart frantically pounds in his chest from the exertion. Jason's knees shake, ready to give out at any moment. Everything in Jason just wants to shut down, but the thought of the big-eyed little girl stuck with men who want to abuse and sell her keeps him standing.

Tessa saunters behind Jason. Though he can't see or hear her, he feels her – feels the chill lingering around her that penetrates his gear with ease. He hates having his back exposed to her, but Jason reminds himself that she's not real. She can't hurt him. By leaving himself vulnerable, he shoves everything back in her face, which almost makes him smile.

When Jason comes upon the bike, he winces at the damage that he can see in the dark: a huge gouge in the side, shattered glass everywhere, one handlebar gone entirely, and so much more. Still, he thinks he might be able to use it one last time... maybe.

With a wheeze, Jason bends over and grabs the remaining handlebar. Despite the strain it puts on his muscles, he manages to pull it up, thanking the heavens for its lightweight design.

Tessa sighs behind him. "Good God, Jason, you can't be serious."

Jason can't help the snarl that escapes his lips, the anger in his chest upgrading from bubbling to boiling. The cold of Tessa's presence retreats from the spitting, fiery heat of his anger that explodes in his chest.

Jason snaps around faster than he thought possible in his state. His wounds yank and pull, causing another flare of pain, but he doesn't care as he growls, "Actually, I am, you cold-hearted _bitch_. There's a kid out there in need of saving, but I'm stuck here in this mess because you thought it'd be fun to drop in!"

"I didn't cause you to wreck, Jason," Tessa says evenly, unphased by the accusation slung at her. "It's your own damned fault for driving so recklessly. You set your own plans back, not me."

Jason's jaw clenches, and his shoulders begin to shake. He wants to snap at her, lash out, tell her off, but... she's right, he realizes with a painful twist in a gut. He would've always hit that pothole, regardless if she had been there to see him do it.

He doesn't have to admit it, though.

Growling, Jason gets on his bike and regrets his quick movements immediately as his wounds tear again. Jason holds his breath to stop from screaming as he stretches out on his bike, one hand grasping a handlebar and the other grabbing a nub. His ribs seem to shift in his chest as he lays himself flat against the dented metal. Out of habit, Jason reaches to turn the ignition, but the blaring headlights remind him that everything's already ready to go – somehow.

The silhouette of Tessa's head shakes, and her voice is surprisingly gentle as she says, "Jason, there's no reason to move so fast."

Jason's grip tightens around what remains of his steering wheel. "I told you – there's a girl out there in need of saving – _a little girl._ I need to find her before her captors sell her. I won't get another chance like this again."

There's a moment's beat before Tessa replies, her voice tinier than it had ever been before. "Jason, there's no use in that. If you even manage to find her, she won't be alive."

Jason attributes the sudden wave of cold that overcomes him to the rain and decrease of adrenaline in his system. Turning away from her, Jason hits the gas without another word, leaving Tessa to stand by herself in the middle of the desolate road. He doesn't entertain her last words for a single second all the way back to town.

* * *

As Jason pulls up to the dingy old motel, he thinks, _This is too easy_.

The dull throb in his bones and the sling around his right arm reminds him that that's not entirely true. Jason couldn't remember the last time a car chase had taken so long and resulted in so much bodily harm (for himself, anyway). His blood still boils when he imagines the truck's taillights blinking out of sight, and Jason has yet to forgive himself for how that scenario had ended.

However, after that, everything had been smooth sailing, even with the amount of damage he'd sustained during the wreck. Even finding the truck drivers, which he thought would've been the hardest task, had been surprisingly easy. Once off the road from hell, they had driven to a little town that was mere miles from the road's exit point. Having witnessed Jason's unfortunate crash, they thought him surely dead. Imagine their surprise when, hardly an hour later, the young man broke down their hotel room door, trudging in like a zombie but the wrath of hell simmering around him.

That image alone gave Jason all the information he needed in record timing. For the men's cooperation, Jason left them alive, stewing in their terror, but gave them the promise that, should he ever come across them again, they wouldn't leave the encounter so lucky.

After, he found a mob doctor in town to see to his injuries. The middle-aged man had advised that he find a place to get plenty of bedrest over the next few weeks, but for Jason, that hadn't been on the agenda. He demanded an obscene amount of heavy painkillers instead.

From there, he'd merely taken the doctor's luxury car with his (coerced) blessing and sped the entire way across the country. Despite his speeding, he hadn't met any adversary on his way, and now, as he gets out of the car and eyes the rundown motel suspiciously, he wonders about what waits for him next.

Jason closes the car door and walks towards the front entrance, ducking inside. He approaches the front desk on the far side of the lobby.

The man behind it looks up from his ancient computer as Jason nears, his footsteps loud and clunky against the hardwood floor. The man gives Jason a once over, quirking an eyebrow at the sling and his black and blue face. He almost writes Jason off, the young man can tell, but then his eyes land on the bulge of his hip, where his poorly concealed handgun is.

Jason wants to applaud the man. Most others would only notice his wrecked state. Even more impressive, while the man tenses, he otherwise doesn't show the presence of the firearm unnerves him. He probably sees it quite often then. Jason hopes that doesn't mean the man will give him trouble. He doesn't exactly have the time for it.

"How can I help you today, sir?" The man's voice is cold, like the temperature of the room.

Jason replies, "I'm here to meet with my friends." He gives the clerk the description of the two men that the lackeys had told him. "They would've had a girl around nine with them."

The clerk twirls a pencil around his fingers – a nervous habit, if Jason would guess. He hums, stalling, glances at the gun at Jason's hips again, and then hesitantly replies, "Maybe. If perhaps they are here, should I expect trouble?"

"Of course not, sir. Like I said, we're friends. I'm meeting them for a drink while they're in town." Jason smiles for good effort, even though he knows the man won't buy it.

Another glance at the bulge. The pencil twirls around the clerk's fingers faster as he takes in Jason's physical state – the sling, the gauze peeking from under his shirt collar, the heavy hang of his shoulders. The gears in his brain turn frantically, contemplating his options and the chances of their predicted outcomes.

Though he's been good at keeping it restrained, Jason's anger starts to simmer. Before the clerk can make up his mind, Jason sets his free hand on his hip, right above where his weapon rests. He flashes another smile, this one not so friendly, and says, "C'mon. I'm late as it is. Am I gonna have to force you or what?" Jason laughs good-naturedly, but his fingers ease themselves under the hem of his shit, reaching for the grip.

The clerk reacts with surprising grace. He calmly raises his hands in surrender and motions _hold on._ "Now, now, there's no need for that. I was only teasing, you see. I know exactly who your friends are. Let me just check the room number for you."

Jason retracts his hand, though he returns it back to its original place on his hip. The simmering dulls, though it doesn't disappear completely. "Thanks. I appreciate that." And he does because that means he doesn't have to incapacitate this guy.

With a few clicks of his mouse and a glance through the log, the clerk tells the younger man which room the men are staying in. Jason thanks the clerk one last time and tells him in a teasing note, "And hey, don't tell anybody I was here, or I'll have to kill you." Jason laughs far too loud at himself, the man chuckling uneasily with him, and then leaves the lobby, heading for the elevator. His steps are only slightly hurried.

A few short minutes later, Jason steps out of the elevator, turns, and stops dead midstride. He thinks, _I don't have time for this_.

About three-fourths the way down the hall, Tessa stands sentry outside of the very room that Jason plans to ambush, leaning with her back against the wall. She stares into the wall opposite of her, eyes fogged over and mouth set into her perpetual frown that seems different from her usual one somehow. Her shoulders, too, hang heavy, as if some invisible weight sat upon them.

Jason takes no notice of the woman's change in demeanor. His eyes narrow into slits, and his shoulders tense, almost shaking. His wrath comes off standby, bubbling to the surface so quickly that it's almost as if it hadn't left at all, warming the young man's chest. He fights it back down, doesn't let it overcome him as he so often lets it. _She's just a figment,_ he reminds himself, even as a not-so-sure part of himself nags in the back of his thoughts. _She's not worth the reactions you keep giving her._

So, taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Jason advances down the hall. His footfalls, though muffled by the carpet, sound like thunderclouds in the otherwise silent hall. Tessa hears his approach, pushes off the wall, and turns to him, holding her arms up in surrender. "Jason, please, just stop here –"

"I don't have time for you," Jason cuts off, refusing to look at her as he stops in front of the door. He pulls his gun and backs up, bracing his muscles.

"C'mon, Jason, don't -"

 _BANG._ Jason kicks the flimsy door from its hinges, the pain meds dulling what would have been a stab to his rattled ankles. Startled yelps shock the air as Jason storms the apartment. Another _BANG_ , and one of the two men inside drops. He hasn't even hit the floor before the intruder turns on the remaining occupant. Jason can't even begin to know what runs through the second man's mind as he looks Jason up and down, seeing his broken body and smoking gun.

Jason says, "You have two seconds to tell me where the girl is. One –"

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot, please! She's in there. She's in the room there!"

"Then consider yourself free to leave." Jason jerks his head towards the door. The man gets up, taking his chance of freedom, but one step out the door, Jason turns after him.

 _BAM BAM_.

The man collapses. He slams into the ground with an audible _thud_ and ceases movement. Blood leaks from the gaping hole in the back of his head.

Jason goes to the bedroom door indicated on the wall to his left. He reaches for the knob, and just as his palm settles on it, Tessa's voice cuts through the air. "Jason, stop!"

He does so against his better judgment. "I don't have –"

"No," she snaps. Jason starts and, without thinking, turns around. Tessa stands in the doorway at the fallen man's feet, her arms dangling at her sides. It's a vulnerable stance that Jason's never seen her take before. In a way, she's opening up to him, but from the tenseness of her shoulders, this is no way her saying that she'll let him push her around either.

"Jason, I didn't come here for you tonight," she says. "but you are the reason that I've stuck around this long."

Jason's brows furrow, his heart sinking in his chest, though he doesn't know why. What does she mean?

"I'm not going to beg. I'm only going to ask you listen to me just this once." Her voice is even, despite her pleading note. "Turn around. Leave. Go back to wherever the hell it is you came from. All you'll do is hurt if you go in there."

He should've known. Jason slowly shakes his head at her. "What is wrong with you? There's a little girl in there."

Tessa's shoulders sag the tiniest bit. "No, Jason. She's gone."

 _Gone_ is a broad term with many definitions attached to it, yet Jason knows what she means immediately. His heart constricts, and his hand tightens around the doorknob. He hisses, "Get out of here, Tessa." Turning back to the door, he turns the knob, testing it. It gives way with no resistance and clicks open.

His heart skips a beat. The door shouldn't be unlocked. What if the kid got curious? Desperate? Any number of emotions that would encourage an escape, even if it was futile?

Slower now, Jason nudges the door, and as it swings open with barely any effort, Tessa whispers, "As you wish, then."

Inside, the lights are bright and shining, the moving ceiling fan casting long shadows across the room. It's bare like most motel rooms, with only a dresser, nightstand, and bed.

The bed. Jason's mouth drops open. Little Johanna Mayer lays on her back, staring up, up, up into the ceiling with glassy eyes. A red smile gleams across her throat, bleeding onto the old dusty sheets.

Jason's hand begins to shake. The gun slips loose from slacking grip, clattering to the floor. For the second time in twenty-four hours, tears prick at his eyes. Jason bites them back, choking with the effort. He balls his hands into fists and takes a deep breath. He tells himself, _You don't get to cry. This is your fault. Look what you did_ , even though he knows that's not exactly fair.

Jason inhales and exhales again, just as deep. He gives the little girl's body one last look and then turns away, closing the bedroom door behind him, which leaves him alone with the dead bodies of those who were truly responsible.

Staring at them, Jason's anger explodes to the surface. He clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders, as if to fight someone. His blood boils, and his chest tightens. He wants to scream at these men, wants to give them all the hurt they deserve for what they did, but he can't. They're already dead by his hand, their blood congealing in their wounds.

He should've waited. He should've kept them alive until he had made sure the girl was ok. They didn't deserve the quick, painless death he'd given them.

With an anguished wail, Jason slams his unmarred fist into the wall behind him. Pain explodes as bones shatter, stabbing into his joints, but it pales in comparison to the pain the girl must have felt. Jason draws back and punches the wall again and again and again, until his knuckles are bleeding and a sizable hole is left in the drywall.

Jason drops his hand, his blood cooling, his anger spent. The tears well up once more, and he blinks them away. Without thinking, he looks to the open front door, where he had left Tessa. The frame is empty, just as he'd asked.

A hole rips open in his chest, more painful than all his wounds combined. He aches for Tessa to come back, if only so he doesn't have to be here alone with Johanna, his biggest fuck-up yet. He should've known he wouldn't get here in time.

 _She won't be alive_ , Tessa had warned him. _I didn't come here for you. All you'll do is hurt._

She had known. She had tried to persuade him to go home. She'd wanted to spare him of this crushing failure, knowing that he'd always be too late, too late, _too_ _late_ , like everyone had been _too late_ for him.

But that couldn't be possible, Jason realized. Tessa comes from his own mind, a product of nearly dying; she could only know what Jason himself knew. Yes, the possibility of Johanna dying had always existed, but... Jason had hoped so strongly to save her that he'd convinced himself that she would be alive when he barged in, no matter what. He'd been so sure, despite being told the opposite.

So, how, then, had Tessa known differently?

* * *

 **OHHHHHH, I'm so happy for this garbage chapter to finally be over. Far too much editing went into this. I now hate it, but rewriting all 12 pages is not an option after it's already been rewritten nearly twice now. Time to move on. XD**

 **Hope you guys like this slightly better than I do! If you do, let me know! If you don't, well, there's nothing you can say that I haven't already thought. XD Oh well. Appreciate you guys for sticking with me this far, and a special shoutout to Puff, who continues to help me sort through all of my ideas that hit me mid-chapter. You are the real hero in this. Love you!**


	4. Fourth Encounter

**4.**

The moon shines bright tonight, brighter Jason can ever remember it being before. The country road before him bathes in blue light, the yellow and white lines nearly lost in its intensity, and on either side of the pavement, thick moonbeams pierce through the thick treetops of the forest. Above, the sky is cloudless, and the moon hangs suspended in the center, a full, silver disc. It's the perfect night for driving.

And Jason _resents_ it – or, he resents that it came tonight, this month, this _year_. It should have come to him so much earlier, when things were going _right_ for once in his life. Tonight, it should be raining buckets, enough to flood. The stars should be gobbled up by an advancement of black clouds, lightning lighting their path while thunder rocked the earth. Such a storm still wouldn't be able to come close to the intensity of the storm in Jason's head, in his _heart_ , but even a drizzle would be a hell of a lot better than this fucking beautiful blue night.

Hand tightening around the clutch, Jason downshifts as he swerves his stolen Porsche around a sharp bend. His heart jumps as the wheels threaten to slip out from under him, but in seconds, he's around the bend and heading downhill. The LED headlights slice through the moonlight and reveal another bend a few moments ahead of him. It's not nearly as bad as numerous others he's tackled tonight. Jason shifts back up, the little hand in his speed gauge climbing upwards, confident he'll be alright.

The bend comes and goes, and though gravity tries to pull the car off the road, Jason's heart keeps steady, numbed by worse close calls. The road now before him is almost straight; a few, small curves break the flow, following the ravines and ridges, but they're minuscule.

Jason glances at the digital clock set in the dashboard. The red numbers glare **1:36** , which means he's been out for over three hours now. Maybe four. He can't quite remember. He hadn't been really been paying attention to the time when he'd hijacked the car. Either way, he won't be able to keep this going for a whole lot longer. If he's lucky, he has about two hours left. If not, he's looking more at forty-five minutes, which would be just enough time to get back to town before he becomes stranded.

Now, if only he _wanted_ to go home.

Thinking of the barren apartment back in Gotham and all the plans laid out on his desk that he would have to revise, Jason's stomach twists. He hates the thought of going back more than he hates the perfect weather, especially with the road stretching out invitingly before him. Really, he tells himself, it would be a waste _not_ to drive it.

Knowing he'll regret it later but not caring now, Jason shifts up and mashes the gas, the car lurching forward.

Once upon a time, Jason would've been able to feel the steep increase in speed. He used to notice how the world outside his window blurred into shapeless colors and marvel at how he remained unchanged. When he was younger, speeding had the same effect as an adrenaline shot, including the addiction that came after. With time and experience, the excitement had worn thin while the addiction, which could only be satisfied with near death experiences nowadays, had not.

Part of Jason mourns the time in his life he didn't need to go to such extreme lengths to let off steam. He yearns to turn back the clock to simpler times – or as simple as it could get with him. To his surprise, Jason finds that doesn't mean he wants to be with Bruce again. In some sick twist of fate, he wants to return to as recent as a year ago. Since coming back from the dead, things had going so well for him. Not everything, obviously, like the actual resurrection and following psychotic break, but overall, he had been doing better. He'd set himself straight. He put his mind to planning instead of throwing himself headlong into every situation. He had aligned himself with Talia, and in turn, he gained access to a vault of knowledge that never would have been available, had he still been with Bruce.

That's not to say that Jason had been happier than he had been with Bruce – far from it – but if nothing else, Jason had become satisfied. He knew his purpose and why it was his, and that was more than he could ever say about his life before his unfortunate demise, where he often knew one without the other.

But this last year… these last God-forsaken twelve months… They almost hurt worse than dying.

Unbidden, memories rush back, one after another: the stabbing in London by some lucky asshole. His lapse in taking care of himself, resulting in his near-fatal infection. His disappearing off the grid entirely for six months, which nearly drove him insane. His overall decline in speed and attentiveness, which had resulted in mistakes – so many mistakes, too many mistakes – and cost a little girl _her life_ when it should have been _his_.

But mostly, Jason thinks about the goodwill, confidence, and respect that he'd built for himself and lost. The future he'd been barreling towards no longer felt certain, and for the first time in a long time, Jason hangs in limbo, wondering if he should continue like he has while doing just that.

And Jason has the woman in the passenger seat to blame for all of it.

Without turning his head, Jason glances at Tessa. He can just barely see her. The red lights on the dashboard cast pitch black shadows across her frame, but they don't cast behind her, almost as if she's not there at all. Relaxed, she leans back into the seat with one leg crossed over the other, hands clasped in her lap. She doesn't look at Jason. She doesn't speak. As far as the man knows, she hasn't even moved since appearing beside him all those hours ago. Her eyes are locked ahead of her, out the windshield, staring blankly into the night.

Her lack of engagement unnerves Jason. She's always popped in with some greeting, always tried to scathe him with her comments, but tonight, Jason only knew of her visit because of a drop in temperature. He doesn't know what to make of it.

Ahead, another curve hurtles towards him, the end of the straightaway near. It's not as bad as some of the others that Jason's tackled but still dangerous if he hits it at the right speed.

Tessa's shadowed figure looms in his peripheral, so unnaturally silent and still. Jason decides he's had enough of it – something he never would have thought possible before. She doesn't get to be quiet the one time he _almost_ hopes that something goes wrong and kills him.

Calculating his next move carefully, Jason downshifts once, twice, three times and puts on the brake. The car slows down considerably but still not enough to be safe, which is his goal. A few seconds tick by where Jason could further drop his speed, bring it down to manageable, but he doesn't take his chance. He swerves around the corner. Jason clenches his teeth as two of his wheels lift off the pavement. His heart jumps into his throat, and he downshifts again. The curve ends, the road straightens out, and the car jolts as the wheels land back on the ground. It continues its way, undeterred.

Jason glances at Tessa again. He doesn't think she's even blinked.

Frustration builds in Jason's chest. His heart beats rapid-fire from the close call, and it starts to burn – a familiar sensation that Jason doesn't even notice. Heat builds under his collar. His fingers twitch, wanting to scratch the prickling breaking out on his arms. He snaps, "Are you ever going to say _anything_?"

To Jason's surprise, she asks, "What would you have me say, Jason?" Her voice is low, and as it always seems to be nowadays, exhausted.

Stunned, Jason doesn't know how to reply. He had never had to supply the conversation before; she had always had something to say. What does he even want to hear from her? Not her gentle persuasions to 'let go.' He'd probably take her word and crash into a tree. He doesn't want admonishment for his choices; he gets it enough from himself and the rest of the world, but he doesn't deserve any comfort she could give either. Everything may be her fault, but he still carries more of the blame. The problem always draws back to him. He doesn't know what called her forth from wherever she came from, but – and he thinks this, he notices how his conviction for his theory has eroded; his belief, which was set in stone before, now sits on a foundation of sand, and that's another thing to blame him for, he supposes – he never should have encouraged her existence like he has.

"I don't know," Jason finally answers, his voice nearly cracking. Frustrated, he jerks the wheel to ride to the smooth curves of the road. "Something. _Anything_. You're a chatterbox. I'm sure you can come up with something creative."

"There's nothing left to tell you. I've said my piece enough." Jason can feel a glare, even though she hasn't so much as glanced in his direction. No pity has been saved for him today. "Besides, you never listen to me anyway. I'm done knocking on your door."

Jason hates how fair that is of her. "But what if I'm willing to open it now?"

"One, I still wouldn't need to talk to you about it, and second, letting someone in isn't in your nature. You may think you're ready or willing or _whatever_ , but you'll always lack follow through."

Another wave of heat washes up Jason's throat and over his cheeks. He can't believe she's insulted him like that. He snaps, "Oh yeah? Then why've you tried so many times? For being such a lost cause, you sure did your damn hardest to barge your way in."

"A mistake," she says plainly. She must've had a lot of time to sit and think about it if she could dismiss it this easily. "I thought I saw a part of you that was ready to let go. I still see it now – _especially_ now. No one does this kind of dangerous shit unless some part of them is ready to take their hands off this wheel."

"Wait one second – hold up. So, which am I? You just said that my stubborn ass doesn't want to die –"

"Move on, not die."

"There's no difference when it concerns you. Back to the point because – suddenly, I actually _do_ want to die? I can't be both, so which is it?"

Tessa moves for the first time to press a hand into her temple. Jason fights back a smirk, hollow as it would've been. Tessa replies, "I didn't say you were both. I said your stubborn ass won't let you move on–" Jason rolls his eyes at her choice of words. –"but a part of you wishes you could."

Sure. Out of context, she's not wrong. There are times Jason does wish he could let everything go, abandon his current path, and move on to a fresh start, as Tessa likes to say. In context, though, he can't believe her gall. He may have plenty of thoughts of, _Damn it, if I just let this guy shoot me, if I just drive too fast or let my hands off the wheel, if I just let myself be plowed down, it'd certainly make everything easier,_ but they were fleeting – products of frustration. Even when he circled back around to the dark corners of his mind, as he was apt to do, he never actually meant it. He dreaded the day that he would have to return to the grave he'd crawled out of once.

Why couldn't Tessa see that? Why did she have to keep coming around again and again, taunting him with his scariest fear and his strongest fantasy, all at once? Why couldn't she just leave him to walk his path alone?

 _Funny that you think you wouldn't die of loneliness without her,_ a tantalizing voice whispers in the back of his mind. Jason's hands tighten around the steering wheel. He hates (and hates and _hates_ , and is there anything that he loves anymore?) how right the voice is. If it weren't for her rhetoric, he'd probably welcome her when she came, whether a fiction or no.

"Am I right, or am I right?" Tessa asks, breaking Jason from his train of thought.

He shoots her a glare from the corner of his eye. "I don't want to die."

"I didn't say you did."

"Whatever."

The pair sink back into silence, Jason zipping the car along and Tessa staring ahead without seeing. The air between them crackles with their warring frustration. With one spark, one thoughtless comment, both would blow.

Jason focuses on the winding curves ahead, the long straightaways disappearing farther behind him with every second. He hurtles into hairpin after hairpin, his hand working overdrive on the clutch, his free hand throwing the steering wheel this way and that. His body jerks back and forth, gravity grappling to drag him and his ride into the ditches and drop-offs that rise and fall on either side of him. To his frustration, Tessa remains still beside him, as if the laws of psychics didn't apply to her – which, he thinks, they don't. His resentment of her grows.

To be fair, she probably feels the same for him. She puts up with the car's jerking movements for maybe ten minutes, and then she snaps, "Jason, for God's sake, stop chasing your headlights and _go home_."

Jason quirks an eyebrow. He'd never thought she'd suggest something so sensible. Maybe some persuasion to let the car drift off the side of the road, but a plea for him to go home? Unheard of, unless there was something there that he wasn't aware of – the more likely of the two options, really. Still, there was something about her attitude that made Jason think otherwise.

"Yeah?" he asks. "What about the whole 'moving on' deal? Not going to try to sell me your bullshit anymore?"

Tessa sighs and presses a hand to her temple again. "Only for the night, Jason. Now, go home, so I don't have to worry about you anymore and can get back to my job."

"Should have done that hours ago."

"Should have but couldn't. Thanks for that."

Jason rolls his eyes. "I wasn't keeping you here."

Tessa turns her head and looks at him for the first time. Jason glances at her, catching only a small glimpse of her exasperated look.

"Weren't you?"

Jason doesn't know how to answer, so he doesn't, and Tessa doesn't try to speak with him again.

* * *

 **Hope any of you still reading enjoyed! One more chapter, and then this baby is done. WOO!**


	5. The Last Encounter

**5.**

The headstone is worn, covered in grime from the elements, its surface marred by cracks and scratches. The sun sets in the distance, its light staining the sky a bloody red and every cloud deep purpose. As the sun rays disappear, the stone seems to sag with its descent, its job done for the day. Jason's sure it was the best that money could buy a long time ago when it was first bought, but nowadays, it looks about as sad as Jason feels – and just as lonely, too. It's the only gravestone on the hill, and the absence of flowers means that no one has probably visited in weeks, if not longer.

And why should anyone come to visit? The headstone lies. It says, "Here lies Jason Peter Todd," but no such body rests beneath it. "A Good Friend, Brother, Son," it reads, but those had known him knew better. Except for being a tax deduction as a minor, Jason hadn't ever really been any good to anyone – common knowledge to any person mildly familiar with his situation.

But it's always been best not to speak ill of the dead, right? For that reason alone, had they bothered to put such a kind headstone. Otherwise, the dead might come back to haunt them.

Jason's lips twitch the tiniest bit upwards at the thought, but the gesture is hollow, just like the pine box six feet beneath his feet.

His smile fades again into nothingness, and his lips quiver as his chest feels as though it's being ripped open as he realizes – he should be down there in it, it occurs to him, not for the first time. He should be a decomposed corpse, sleeping eternity away as his body returned to dust, only his bones left behind to suggest he'd ever existed at all – well, besides his lying headstone. He shouldn't be here, alive and breathing and staring at the place where he should be until the end of time.

Tearing his eyes away from the granite slab, Jason scans the empty graveyard around him. In every direction, he sees hundreds of other stones. Some are as plain as his, only a name and date needed. Others are topped with weeping angels or crosses, an outward sign of the living entrusting their loved one's safety to their supernatural protectors, while a select handful had chosen towering monuments to mark their spots, giving one last show of wealth or greatness.

 _It's not fair_ , Jason thinks to himself as he bites his tongue to keep the pressure behind his eyes down. Jealousy twinges in his chest, accompanied by the ghost of fear. Why couldn't he be like them? Why couldn't he go back? Why did he have to be scared – no, terrified – of the trip there?

As the remaining sun disappears below the horizon, Jason's high shoulders wilt. He hides his head in his hands, and though trembles run down his body, he refuses to cry. He blinks, trying to dispel any moisture misting his eyes, unwilling to let himself fall apart in such an open space. He didn't deserve to be vulnerable anyway, not even in private, when so many failures sat upon his shoulders. If anything, he should be strengthening his resolve, planning a new attack, earning his moments of weakness, like his damned mentor had time and again.

Why couldn't he be strong like Bruce? Like Dick? Like that new little Robin running around?

Still, here he stands, mourning his own life and death while everyone else had moved on years ago, leaving him trapped by himself with his own confused feelings. How does someone mourn a death they don't remember? All those years he'd spent under the ground – they might as well have been one restless night's sleep. He tries to grab any semblance of a memory, but the space between the explosion and his waking in his coffin is an empty void. There's nothing to hold onto, as if he'd never really died at all.

 _It's not fair_ , Jason thinks again, pressing the edges of his palms into his eyes. He just wants a little peace. Is that too much to ask for? He needs someone to point him where he can find just a taste. He'd thought his training would help. He'd thought all his master plans would help. He'd thought about getting revenge would help, but everything just kept leading back to here: the place where it all started. The place of forever goodbyes, which he never had a chance to tell a soul or to himself. Why couldn't he say it himself now, then? Why couldn't he let go of a time that he couldn't even remember?

A fat teardrop drips from his eye, smearing on his palm without permission. The tiniest of whimpers leaves his throat, and mortified, he bites his tongue harder, heat rising up into his neck and cheeks.

"Been a rough day, I'm guessing?"

Jason curses under his breath. He should've known that he'd see her again sooner rather than later.

"More like a rough lifetime," he replies. Wiping away the remaining wetness from his face, Jason turns. His hands clench into fists by his sides, though there's no reason. Jason couldn't physically fight his visitor, even if he wanted to. He settles on glaring at her instead. "The hell are you here for? Does it look like I'm dying to you?"

Tessa clasps her hands together, for once not crossing them defensively over her chest but kneading them together in a white-knuckled ball. She frowns as she looks Jason over. Her dark eyes shine with concern in the growing starlight, and she shrugs. "I just thought you could use the company. How're you healing?"

Jason shoves his hands in his pockets to keep them from grabbing at his throat, where a tight wad of bandages wraps around a slit just above his collarbone. Almost as if it had its own heartbeat, it throbs and pulses. It has been off and on for weeks now, reminding him again and again of his most recent shortcoming, of another one of Bruce's long line of wins, and longer line of victories Joker has over him.

 _It's not fair_. It might have been a big ask, one of his biggest, but why couldn't the universe have given it to him this once? He'd never asked for anything else, not even this second chance at life. Didn't he deserve a little good for all his trouble?

"It's healing fine," Jason replies, though a part of him resents Bruce's impeccable aim. His mentor should've thrown it harder, made it go deeper. He should've let it slice his artery wide open and watched as Jason bled out on the cold, dirty floor. That was how it was supposed to go. It would have been more merciful than letting Jason live with the fact that Bruce, the person he'd always loved the most, would rather risk fatally harming him if it meant not having to make any hard decisions – if it meant he got to win, like Jason never had.

"I'm glad," Tessa replies, and from the sound of her voice, she means it.

Jason doesn't know what to make of that. He'd been expecting disappointment.

Tessa's eyes flicker away from Jason's face for a moment, glancing at the headstone behind him. Jason is sure she can't read it in the growing darkness, but he's also sure she doesn't need to see it.

"If you don't mind my asking, what business do you have here?" She quirks her eyebrows, still wringing her hands anxiously in front of her. On any normal person, they'd be rubbed raw by now.

Jason shrugs, and without thinking, he starts, "I don't know. I just..."

He trails off, unsure of what to say because he doesn't really know the answer to her question. All he'd wanted was to get out of his apartment. He couldn't keep laying in bed, unmoving for days on end without eating or drinking, but outside his apartment, he had no direction. He hadn't known what to do. Somewhere along the line, he'd gotten so lost that he'd come here. He doesn't know when he'd made the decision, if he'd ever really made it at all. But then, he figures, what else was he supposed to do, now that he had nothing to move towards?

He should've won that night. He'd been counting on it. He'd thought it over so many times in so many ways that it should've been perfect. All Bruce had to do was kill the Joker. Jason knows that everything could've worked out for him if Bruce had done that one thing. He and Bruce could've made amends. Jason would've been willing to abide by Bruce's rules again – no killing, no guns, obey every order because he's Batman, and Batman knows best, even when he doesn't – because he'd have gotten everything he wanted.

And if Brue had decided that the Joker's life was worth more than Jason's? Well then, it wouldn't have mattered. Jason would be dead, and he'd never have to live with that fact, which is a worse fate than dying, he thinks. At least when he was dead, he couldn't ache from his skin to his soul as he does now.

He should have won.

(Today's full of shoulds, coulds, and woulds. How come he couldn't have made one a did, done, or won?)

Jason's collarbone burns at his thoughts. He flinches as the wound prickles, and though he doesn't move, it feels as though the gauze is rubbing against it, scratching it wide open again. Jason hunches his shoulders, then draws them back again and hisses when his movements elicit a stabbing sensation. He turns away from Tessa as tears prick his eyes again, not from pain but from the reminder of who gave it to him. He stares at his headstone and thinks, _I wish it were true. I wish Bruce had been kind enough to kill me._

"You just what, Jason?"

Tessa's voice is calm, even, patient. It's the same voice that Bruce had used on him, like he'd been trying to talk down a wild, wounded animal – which, Jason guesses, he had been and is even now. It turns his stomach to hear Tessa use that tone. With how it turned out when Bruce had used it, Jason imagines Tessa walking up behind him, knife in hand to stab him in the back. Though he shouldn't think it, he feels she could, if she wanted.

Although, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

He finally answers, voice low, "I don't know. I really don't know."

What little light remains from the sun winks out as it recedes further below the horizon, but behind him, the city doesn't get any darker. Lights flash and beam all around the two figures, lighting the night so bright Jason wonders what the point of the sun is at all. A breeze picks up, but there's no gentleness to it. It whips around, cold and nipping at any of Jason's bare flesh. Under his jacket, gooseflesh springs up, every hair standing on edge.

"Can I tell you something?"

Jason jumps and stumbles a step to the side. His head whips around to Tessa, who stands at his side with her hands clasped together in front of her, posture straight, her expression gentle. Jason shies away from her, shaken by her silent approach and uncharacteristic expression, but Tessa doesn't seem to mind or notice.

She says, "You were always happier dead."

Jason rolls his tired eyes. He should've known this was coming. Could she not drop it for one day?

"Please, Tessa, talk me into jumping off the ledge another day. I don't want to have this conversation again."

"Too bad. We're going to have to since your dense skull hasn't worked out what I've been trying to tell you for over a year now." Her tone sharpens, resembling the old Tessa for a split second before she softens again. "You're not happy here, Jason. You never really were."

"That's not true," he snaps. Bruce's phantom flashes in and out, a rare smile on his face. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears himself snickering. It hurts to hear it. His chest aches with the echo of his years-old laughter bouncing between his bones. He can't remember the last time he'd laughed like that.

"Not entirely, no," Tessa agrees before asking. "but was it ever enough? Did it ever balance out all your pain, misery, and heartache? Can you think of a time that your happiness didn't come with equal amounts of grief?"

The answer's no. To every single one of her questions, the answer is no, especially her last one. Jason had always been life's punching bag; he'd never been allowed a memory that hadn't come marked with the thick, black edges of unfortunate circumstance and tragedy.

Tessa continues in a regretful tone, "I'm not trying to tell you that you're not capable of reaching a good place in life, and I've come off that all this time, I'm sorry. That wasn't my intention. I know now I shouldn't have been so brash with you, but," she pauses, almost sounding unsure. "I didn't know what to do with you. Of all the people who deserve a second chance, it's you, but you've never been taught how to make the most of it. Instead, I get to watch you waste it."

Jason plunges his fingernails into his palms and clenches his jaw, his teeth grinding into each other. Anger wells in his chest, warming his skin so he no longer feels the brisk wind. Unwilling to turn to her, Jason glares at Tessa from the corners of his eyes. "How _dare_ you say that? All I've tried to do is good since coming back."

"And where's it gotten you, Jason?" Tessa asks unflinchingly as if dealing with a child throwing a temper tantrum instead of Jason and his explosive temper. "I guess you've done a lot of good, but it's temporary at best. You can kill all the murderers, rapists, and terrorists you want, but someone will always be right behind them in line. Your reputation may slow them down, but once you're killed in action or – who am I kidding? You'll never reach old age living like this – they'll come flooding back, and then who will scare them into behaving?"

Jason's anger and resolve falters, but before his face he can show it, he cements his expression in stone. He doesn't want Tessa to know her blow hurt him. "Anyone who has the balls to take up arms can do it."

A ruthful smile twitches on Tessa's face, and she laughs a little under her breath. "No, they really couldn't."

Despite the crumbling foundation of beliefs that he stands on, anger still cuts through Jason's chest like a knife. He finally turns toward Tessa and for the first time noticing her stature, he glares down at her, hoping with all his being that she can feel the fiery heat of his fury with all its sharp edges.

Tessa crosses her arms back into their usual spot across her chest. She leans back on her heels, not to get away from him but to meet his stare totally. She quirks her eyebrow, as if to say, "What do you have to say to that?"

Jason bristles. "The whole passing-the-mantle-along seems to be working for Batman, wouldn't you say? Why couldn't it work for me?"

Tessa gives a sharp laugh, which pricks a hole in Jason's already aching heart. He feels his resolve start to bleed from it faster as she says, "He has the right motivation or appears to have the right one: justice. He's not a man, either. Batman's an icon that can be passed to anyone instilled with the same sense of justice. But you? You're trying to convince the whole world that your revenge is a righteous crusade, but I don't see anyone jumping to join your fight, not like they flock to join Batman. To join you would be to feel your unique hurt, and that's impossible, given your circumstances."

The bleed in his heart worsens with each word Tessa speaks, the volume rising and the current strengthening. Desperation scrambles his brain as he tries to staunch the bleed, mentally assuring himself of his purpose again and again with no luck. As salty tears push their way from the corners of his eyes, he knows that he's basically lost the battle against Tessa. Since stubbornness has always been his strongest trait, Jason doesn't admit it, even as a frigid teardrop plummets down his face. He keeps his mouth screwed shut, not knowing what to say.

The jagged edges of Tessa's smile round out, and her taunting eyes fill with remorse. "Sorry. That was harsh. I shouldn't make you suffer because I'm angry. I just want to see you happy, and the only way I know how to do that is to take you back to the next life. Happiness should never be a rare occasion as it has been for you."

"How would you even know anything about my life? It's not like you were there." Jason forgets to tell himself that she's his hallucination, that she knows because she's his. Even if he did remember, it wouldn't matter. He'd stopped caring about the origins of her existence. What did it matter if she wasn't real but persisted in seeing him? In the event she was real and still chose to see him, despite her job, then what did that say about the state of his life?

He didn't know, so he chose not to think about it at all.

"On the contrary, Jason. I've known you since before you were born." Her eyes drift away, remembering. "You surprised me by making it through the pregnancy. Then, you surprised me again when you made it through infancy. Then, childhood. I was surprised when you made it as far as you did with Bruce." She looks at the gravestone. Even with moon and city lights, it was still too dark to read. "I knew he'd get you killed. Part of me hates him for it."

"Why?"

Stupid question. Jason regrets asking as soon as it leaves his mouth.

Tessa turns back to him and smiles, so sad, always sad. "I wanted for you to keep surprising me. In a way, I guess you did."

"But I shouldn't have been able to," Jason whispers. _Just like my grave shouldn't be empty_ , he doesn't say. _Just like how I'm not built to mourn my own death_ , he doesn't mention.

Tessa shakes her head. "No. You shouldn't have been."

"So, where does that leave me?"

Tessa is kind enough not to mention the crack in his voice, the tears flooding down his face, the silent shaking in his shoulders, or maybe she can't see them in the darkness. "It leaves you with a fresh start. Your second chance. You can keep walking this road of revenge, or you can choose your own happiness for once – which isn't cowardly or weak or easy. It'd be harder than anything you've ever done, but you've earned the right to heal."

She's giving him a chance at peace. He can't believe it. He'd just been crying to the universe for this, but he wonders if what Tessa says is true – if all the things he'd been and is and will be make him worthy of such a gift. For a moment, he lets himself fantasize that he is and what he'd do with his life if he gave up his current path. Would he decide to live in Gotham, or would he move somewhere else? He could do both, in a way. He could travel with all the unspent money that Talia had given him to fund his crusade and come back when he missed home. If he ever got tired of being a nomad, he didn't have to settle in Gotham either. He might stay close, find a home in a more rural area of New England, or maybe he'd leave it behind completely, move across the country, across the world, as far away as he could find.

Maybe he'd make a friend on his travels. He couldn't ever go back to anyone he'd known before, not Bruce or anyone connected to the hero life, but that didn't mean he had to be lonely either. Maybe he'd meet a girl. Maybe he would fall in love – something he'd never had the chance to do before – and maybe she would fall in love with him too. Maybe they'd create a family of their own.

Maybe he'd finally lay all his anger to rest. Let his wounds – physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual – knit themselves back together, turning into a little white line on his skin and in his mind. Maybe he'd let it all go and _move on_.

He thinks that those scenarios don't have to be "maybes". He could do it. He _wants_ to do it. His chest physically aches with how much he longs to say, "Yes," to his thirty seconds of dreaming. His heart pounds deep and fast, anxious for his answer. His limbs become light and shaky, practically buzzing with excitement.

But before he can say yes, one question stands in his way: _Who am I outside of my hate and anger?_

The answer he finds is, _No one._

Without his fiery anger and hate, Jason ceases to be a person. Those two parts of himself dictate his life and always have. They kept him alive in his shitty home life and on the streets, filling him with a drive to survive. They made him a powerful fighter as Robin, and they tore a gaping wound open in his and Bruce's relationship. Even now, especially now, everything Jason did was defined by those two traits.

If he gave them up, he'd have to start over completely from scratch. Unlike the faulty one that started in a pine box six feet in the ground, this would be his true second chance.

He didn't have the strength to take it. He'd been asking for this gift for so long, and he couldn't bring himself to take it.

Thinking of shedding his toughened skin turned his stomach. His limbs lost their lightness, his chest aches strangle the life out of his heart, and his shaking grows worse with his panic.

His life had been a storm of pain and inconsistency, but one thing he could always rely on were his anger and hate. There isn't a person in all the world who can measure up to them. They were the best friends that he never had a chance to make in a normal life, and more importantly, they were – are – the reason he does the best he can for the world. He thought about all the good he'd managed to do, all the bastards he'd put down, all the people saved by his actions. He thought about all those that he was too slow to get to. He thought about Johanna Mayer, lying sprawled on a bed, a smile of red sliced from ear to ear.

Tessa's right. Jason needs revenge. He admits he wants the justice no one had served for him, but more than that, he needs to seek revenge for those that couldn't seek it for themselves.

He couldn't give up his life. Not now, not ever. He accepts his fate gladly.

So, why is he choking up? Why are his tears raining faster, his breaths stumbling, and his heart aching the same way it would if he'd lost a friend?

Hearing him, Tessa sighs and runs a hand through her hair, her shoulders drooping. "Yeah. That's what I figured."

"I'm sorry," Jason says, even though he doesn't know why. He doesn't regret his decision and won't ever, but he can't help but seek absolution from the person that he could have been.

"I know," Tessa replies. She forces her smile back on her face, but it looks as fake as plastic. "That means this is the part where I tell you, 'Goodbye,' then. I gotta get back to work. Just because I'm gone doesn't mean people stop dying, y'know?"

Jason takes a deep, steadying breath and wipes the wetness from his face, staining his gloves and the sleeves of his leather jacket. Swallowing the thick lump in his throat, he forces his posture up and straight, as if he'd never broken down. "Yeah. I get that. I really need to do the same."

Tessa nods. She would know that even if he hadn't said it.

"Goodbye, Tessa," Jason says.

Tessa nods one more time. "Goodbye, Jason."

Jason blinks, and Tessa is gone. The only evidence that she had existed is the slight warming of the air.

Even though he knows better, Jason looks around the graveyard. Except for the headstones gleaming in the moonlight, it's empty, just as it had always been. Jason turns back to his own grave. He imagines the marks of age he knows mars the granite's surface, and his heart goes out to it in understanding. His body bears the scars of time too.

Jason allows himself one more second of mourning. When he makes his peace – or what he can of it – he turns and leaves. He doesn't look back.

* * *

 **HAHAHA, THE DEED IS DONE! WOOOOOOO! I'm so excited to have finally finished a piece of work! My heart is happy. Yippee.**

 **I will be posting an epilogue here shortly. It should be reallllly short, so it shouldn't take me but a few days between shenanigans. Excitement is real.**


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The first time Tessa hears the voice tonight, it reaches her ears as a whisper, soft and lilting over each syllable. It rings in her ears like a song stuck in her head, even as other, louder calls for her attention drown it out.

" _Jason Peter Todd_."

She shouldn't even notice it. Thousands of distinct voices assault her ears every minute of her existence. Most wail with sorrow, consumed with grief as they finally shuffle off the mortal coil, falling into eternity headfirst. They beg for her help and comfort, giving out their names in hopes of receiving one minute of her time.

Those poor souls are the most deserving of Tessa's attention. Frustration coils in her chest for noticing Jason's name, for allowing the soft utterance to distract her, even for a moment. Jason doesn't need her. He made that abundantly clear years ago.

Tessa stands from her seat at the bedside of an elderly woman who no longer breathes and whose husband mourns beside her. She closes her eyes, blocking out the man's crying, and listens for another name, one of the screamers. She hears one immediately. She pings the next woman's location, and with a few flaps of her wings, she travels across half the continent as quickly as someone takes one step forward.

" _Jason Peter Todd._ "

The name persists through the night, distracting Tessa at every turn. She pulls ready souls from their bodies, severing their connections and with a calming smile, sending them on their way home. She listens for names that aren't his, wills it so far into the background noise that she wouldn't even hear him if he were screaming, but to no avail. An invisible hand plucks the invisible string tying Jason and Tessa together every other minute, sending vibrations up her torso and into her ears, where his voice begins to grow louder and louder.

By the end of the night, Tessa has scoured the globe more times than she can count, catching every person who falls and landing them safely in their personal heavens. Jason's voice now screams in her ear. She winces with his intensity, unused to the shrill edge. While he certainly cries for her often, he hadn't been this loud or panicked since…

Oh.

 _Oh_.

She hadn't heard his voice like this since Ethiopia when the Joker had rocketed his unfortunate ass into the next plane of existence the first time.

Tessa swears and tells herself, "God, you're an _idiot_."

Closing her eyes, she reaches inside herself, striking the chord in her belly from which Jason's voice originates. His location wells to life on her closed eyelids, and she spreads her wings, taking flight once more.

Tessa lands in an apartment in Gotham, unsurprisingly. She looks around, noting the lack of personal touches that's always been apparent in every one of Jason's headquarters. Only a ratty couch, sagging armchair, dented coffee table, and cracked flat-screen TV occupy the room. Tessa squints her eyes, for the room seems to even be missing its resident, which can't be possible.

With careful footsteps, despite there being no living thing capable of seeing or hearing her, Tessa walks around the living room. Her eyes sweep back and forth over every inch of space, and as she comes around from behind the couch, she stops cold. Her hand flies to cover her mouth.

Jason lies unconscious on the couch, one arm wrapped around his gushing abdomen and the other hanging over the edge of the couch, limp. His chest rises and falls with his labored breaths, his eyes fluttering behind his eyelids. In his throat, moans gurgle and fizzle out in time with the waves of pain assaulting him.

Years ago, Tessa wouldn't have worried about the severity of his wound. Jason had proved time and again that no critical injury would keep him down for long. _I have better things to do,_ was the stubborn bastard's excuse. _I don't have time to lie around and do nothing._

S _ure. Whatever you say,_ she had often thought in return. _Just don't whine when I come to get you._

But now, Tessa sees his mortality catching up with him and not because the fighting had finally worn him down. She wonders to herself, when did Jason become so _old_? His white bangs could no longer be differentiated from the rest of his snowy hair. His muscle mass had withered away, not gone completely but nowhere near what it had once been. Heavy bags hang under his eyes, and wrinkles and scars mar his weathered skin. Exhaustion weighs heavy on him, even as the sweet embrace of sleep hugs him to herself. No longer is Jason a youth bursting with a fiery temper and an ambition to match. Without Tessa's noticing, he'd wilted into an old man who didn't know when to pull out of the fight.

Once upon a time, Tessa had told Jason, "You'll never reach old age living like this." She guesses he took it as a challenge to surprise her one more time, regardless of the consequences, and wonders if he found it worth it in the end. In her opinion, it hadn't.

With a sigh, Tessa joins Jason on the couch, sitting on the edge beside him. The wrinkles seem to deepen with her approach, and as she lowers herself, Jason begins coughing, his lips splattering with crimson. His shoulders shudder with the effort it takes to breathe. His body curls in as if to hold himself together.

Tessa shakes her head. "Oh, Jason, friend, do you have to make a mess of everything?"

Jason responds with another round of coughs and a pool of blood gathering in the corner of his mouth. She hears the liquid bubbling in his throat. Though it never quieted, his name screams in her head, growing louder with every moment.

Tessa whispers, "Don't hate me too much for this, but it's time to come home, Jason."

She reaches out and for the first time since Ethiopia, she lays a hand on his head and brushes her fingers over his forehead. She wills the tentative connection between body and soul to snap along the scar that had healed so long ago and feels it give without hesitation.

Jason's chest ceases movement. The liquid spills from his mouth, but it no longer bubbles.

Then he's there, standing in front of her, the same youth with a shock of white hair she still saw him as in her mind. He looks her up and down, curious, before noticing his body beside her. His face registers no emotion.

"Tessa."

The woman rises to meet him, clasping her hands in front of her.

"Jason. Ready to go?"

* * *

 **I'M DONE. THIS IS IT. I SWEAR. (Like I've listened to myself when it comes to this type of thing before. Pssh.)**


End file.
